MENDELSSOHN! 


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MENJhLSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 


LETTERS 

or 

FELIX  MENDELSSOHN  BARTHOLDY 

FROM 

ITALY  AXD  SWITZERLAND. 

TRANSLATED   BY    LADY   WALLACE. 

WITH   A    BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICE 

BY   JULIE   DK   MARGUERITTES. 


BOSTON: 

OLIVER  DITSON  4  CO.,  2T7  WASHINGTON  STKEET, 

JsEW  YORK:  C.  H.  DITSOK  &  CO. 


FELIX  MENDELSSOHN  BARTHOLDY. 


FELIX  MEXDELSSOHN  BARTHOLDT  was  born  at 
Hamburg,  on  the  third  of  February,  1809.  The  name 
to  which  he  was  destined  to  add  such  lustre,  was 
already  high  in  the  annals  of  fame.  Moses  Mendels- 
sohn, his  grandfather,  a  great  Jewish  philosopher, 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  his  time,  was  the 
author  of  profound  Metaphysical  works,  written  both 
in  German  and  Hebrew.  To  this  great  power  of 
intellect,  Moses  Mendelssohn  added  a  purity  and 
dignity  of  character  worthy  of  the  old  stoics.  The 
epigraph  on  the  bust  of  this  ancestor  of  the  com- 
poser, shows  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  his 
contemporaries: 

"Faithful  to  the  religion  of  his  fathers,  as  wise 
as  Socrates,  like  Socrates  teaching  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  and  like  Socrates  leaving  a  name  that  is 
immortal." 

One  of  Moses  Mendelssohn's  daughters  married 
Frederick  Schlegel,  and  swerving  from  the  religion 
iu  which  both  had  been  brought  up,  both  became 
Roman  Catholics. 

Joseph  Mendelssohn,  the  eldest  son  of  this  great 
old  man,  was  also  distinguished  for  his  literary  taste 
A*  (i) 


11  FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BAKTIIOLDY. 

and  has  left  two  excellent  works  of  very  different 
characters,  one  on  Dante,  the  other  ou  the  system  of 
a  paper  currency. 

In  conjunction  with  his  brother,  Abraham,  he 
founded  the  banking-house  of  Mendelssohn  &  Com- 
pany at  Berlin,  still  flourishing  under  the  manage- 
ment of  the  sons  of  the  original  founders,  the 
brothers  and  cousins  of  Felix,  the  subject  of  this 
memoir. 

George  Mendelssohn  the  son  of  Joseph,  was 
also  a  distinguished  political  writer  and  Professor 
in  the  University  at  Bonn. 

"With  such  an  array  of  intellectual  ancestry,  the 
Mendelssohn  of  our  day  came  into  the  world  at 
Hamburg,  on  the  third  of  February,  1809.  He  was 
named  Felix,  and  a  more  appropriate  name  could 
not  have  been  found  for  him,  for  in  character,  cir- 
cumstance and  endowment,  he  was  supremely  happy. 
Goethe,  speaking  of  him,  said  "  the  boy  was  born 
on  a  lucky  day."  Jlis  first  piece  of  good  fortune, 
was  in  having  not  only  an  excellent  virtuous  woman 
for  his  mother,  but  a  woman  who,  besides  these 
qualities,  possessed  extraordinary  intellect  and  had 
received  an  education  that  fitted  her  to  be  the 
mother  of  children  endowed  as  hers  were.  She 
proffssed  the  Lutheran  creed,  in  which  her  children 
were  brought  up.  Being  of  a  distinguished  commer- 
cial family  and  an  heiress,  her  husband  aodt-d  her 
name  of  Bartholdy  to  his  own.  Mine.  Mendelssohn 
Bartholdy's  other  children  were,  Fanny  her  first- 
born, whose  life  is  entirely  interwoven  with  that  of 


FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BAETHOLDT.  Ill 

her  brother  Felix,  and  Paul  and  Eebecca,  born  some 
years  later. 

When  yet  a  boy,  Felix  removed  with  his  parents 
to  Berlin,  probably  at  the  time  of  the  formation  of 
the  banking  house.  The  Prussian  capital  has  often 
claimed  the  honor  of  being  his  birthplace,  but  that 
distinction  really  belongs  to  Hamburg. 

His  extraordinary  musical  talent  was  not  long  in 
developing  itself.  His  sister  Fanny,  his  "soul's 
friend "  and  constant  companion,  almost  as  richly 
endowed  as  himself,  aroused  his  emulation,  and  they 
studied  music  together  first  as  an  art,  and  then  as  u 
science,  to  be  the  foundation  of  future  works  of  in- 
spiration and  genius. 

Zelter,  severe  and  classic,  profoundly  scientific, 
inexorable  for  all  that  was  not  true  science,  became 
the  teacher  of  these  two  gifted  children  in  com- 
position and  in  counterpoint.  For  piano-forte  play- 
ing, Berger  was  the  professor,  though  some  years 
later  Moscheles  added  the  benefit  of  his  counsels, 
and  Felix  was  fond  of  calling  himself  the  pupil  of 
Moscheles,  with  whom  in  after  life  he  contracted  a 
close  friendship.  Zelter  was  exceedingly  proud  of 
his  pupil,  soon  discovering  that  instead  of  an  indus- 
trious and  intelligent  child,  one  of  the  greatest 
musical  geniuses  ever  known  was  dawning  on  the 
world.  "When  he  was  but  fifteen,  Zelter  took  the 
young  musician  to  AVeimar,  and  secured  for  him  the 
acquaintance  and  good  will  of  Goethe,  which  as 
long  as  Goethe  lived,  seemed  to  be  the  necessary 
consecration  of  all  talent  in  Germany.  By  this  time 


IV  FELIX    MEXDELSSOHN    BARTIIOLDT. 

not  only  was  he  an  admirable  performer  on  the 
piano,  possessed  of  a  talent  for  improvisation  aid  a 
memory  so  wonderful,  that  not  only  could  he  play 
almost  all  Bach,  Handel,  Haydn,  Mozart  and  Bee- 
thoven l;y  heart,  but  he  could  also  without  hesitation 
accompany  a  whole  opera  from  memory,  provided  he 
had  but  seen  the  score  once.  The  overture  to  Mid- 
sninmcr  Night's  Dream,  so  popular  now  in  every  coun- 
try, was  composed  before  lie  was  seventeen,  and  was 
played  for  the  first  time  as  a  duet  on  the  piano  by 
his  sister  Fanny  ami  himself  on  the  I'.Mh  November, 
loL'li.  This  is  indeed  llie  inspiration  of  youth  with 
its  brilliancy,  its  buoyancy,  its  triumphant  joy,  full 
of  the  poetry  of  a  young-  heart,  full  of  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  mind  untainted  by  the  world.  It  was  not 
till  some  years  after,  that  Mendelssohn  completed 
the  music  to  Shakspcare's  great  play.  In  1827, 
Felix  left  theUnivcrsity  of  Berlin  with  great  honors. 
lie  was  a  profound  classical  scholar,  and  has  left  as 
a  specimen  of  his  knowledge,  a  correct,  graceful  and 
elegant  translati'-n  of  Terence's  comedy  of  Andria, 
a  work  greatly  approved  of  by  Goethe.  lie  excelled 
in  gymnastics,  was  an  elegant  rider,  and  like  Lord 
Byron,  a  bold  and  accomplished  swimmer.  The  year 
he  left  the  University,  he  went  to  England,  where 
Henrietta  Sonntag  was  in  the  height  of  her  fame. 
He  played  in  several  concerts  where  she  sang,  as 
well  as  with  Moscheles.  his  old  friend  and  teacher, 
now  established  in  London. 

On    his    return    to   Germany  in   IS.'IO,   he  visited 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  and  there  planned  his  journey 


FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BARTHOLDT.  V 

to  Italy,  a  country  which  all  men  of  genius  yearn 
after,  as  the  promised  land  of  inspiration.  "When 
in  Rome.  Felix  Mendelssohn  began  the  grand  Can- 
tata of  the  AValpurgis  Night,  to  Goethe's  words,  at 
which  he  worked  for  some  years.  On  his  return 
from  his  travels,  Mendelssohn,  who  had  now  all  the 
assurance  and  self-possession  of  an  artist,  was  ap- 
pointed chapel-master  at  Dlisseldorf,  a  position  which 
gave  him  the  direction  of  the  grand  musical  festivals 
held  at  that  time  in  this  city  and  in  Aix-la-Chapelle. 
It  was  during  his  residence  in  Dlisseldorf,  that  he 
composed  his  oratorio  of  St.  Paul,  and  also,  the 
first  set  of  his  "  Songs  without  Words"  for  the  piano, 
where  the  music,  by  its  varied  expression  and  its 
intensity,  alone  told  the  story  of  the  poet.  These 
compositions  were  a  novelty  for  piano-forte  players, 
and  inaugurated  a  new  style,  full  of  interest,  gradu- 
ally setting  aside  the  variations  and  sonatas  which 
had  become  so  meaningless  and  tedious.  The  oratorio 
of  St.  Paul  was  not  given  until  1836,  when  it  was 
produced  at  Diisseldorf,  under  his  own  special  super- 
intendence. Mendelssohn  composed  very  rapidly, 
but  he  was  cautious  in  giving  his  works  to  the 
public,  until  they  thoroughly  satisfied  his  judgment, 
the  most  critical  to  which  they  could  be  submitted. 
In  the  latter  part  of  183G,  having  gone  to  Frank 
fort,  to  direct  a  concert  of  the  Ceciliaverein,  he 
became  acquainted  with  Cecilia  Jcanrenaud.  a  beau- 
tiful and  accomplished  girl,  the  second  daughter  of 
a  clergyman  of  the  Reformed  Church,  and  in  the 
spring  of  1837  she  became  his  wife.  The  marriage 


\'l  FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BAETHOLDT. 

had  been  delayed  some  months  by  Mendelssohn's 
ill  health  ;  he  had  begun  to  feel  the  first  symp- 
toms of  the  nervous  disease,  affecting  the  brain, 
from  which  he  \vas  destined  henceforth  to  suffer, 
and  of  which,  finally,  he  was  fated  to  die. 

After  his  marriage  he  undertook  the  direction  of 
the  Leipzig  Concerts.  All  over  Germany,  Mendels- 
sohn was  in  requisition  ;  his  immense  genius  as  a 
composer,  his  great  skill  as  a  conductor,  his  gentle, 
fascinating  manners,  gave  him  extraordinary  popu- 
larity. It  was  England,  however,  after  all,  who 
appreciated  him  most.  Sacred  music  seems  to  appeal 
especially  to  the  English  taste.  Haydn,  Handel, 
Beethoven  have  all  found  more  patronage  and  appre- 
ciation in  England  than  in  their  own  country.  So  it 
•\va.~  with  Mendelssohn  ;  the  greatest  musical  triumph 
ever  achieved,  was  the  performance  of  the  oratorio 
of  Elijah,  given  at  Birmingham,  the  work  on  which 
Mendelssohn's  fame  will  rest.  He  was  nine  years 
in  composing  this  oratorio;  and  notwithstanding  the 
most  flattering  ovation,  Mendelssohn's  serene  tem- 
perament was  not  moved  to  vanity  or  conceit.  In 
the  very  moment  of  his  success,  he  sat  down  mod- 
estly to  correct  many  things  that  had  not  satisfied 
him.  The  trio  for  three  female  voices  (without  ac- 
companiment) one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in 
the  oratorio,  was  added  by  the  composer  after  the 
public  had  declared  itself  satisfied  with  the  work 
as  it  originally  stood.  Elijah  was  produced  in  1847, 
but  Mendelssohn  had  been  several  times  to  England 
before  this,  playing  at  the  ancient  and  Philharmonic 


KKUX    UEXBELSSOIIX    BARTIIOLDY.  VM 

concerts ;  at  that  time,  the  resort  of  the  elite  in 
London. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  visits  in  1842,  that 
Prince  Albert,  who  as  a  German  and  a  musician, 
hail  sought  his  acquaintance,  introduced  him  to 
Queen  Victoria.  The  visit  was  entirely  devoid  of 
formality,  for  without  any  previous  announcement, 
the  Prince  conducted  Mendelssohn  from  his  private 
apartments,  to  the  Queen's  study,  where  they  found 
her  surrounded  by  papers,  and  just  terminating  her 
morning's  work.  The  Queen  receiving  him  most 
graciously,  apologized  to  the  composer  for  the  un- 
tidiness of  the  room,  beginning  herself  to  put  it  in 
order  and  laughingly  accepting  his  assistance.  After 
some  agreeable  conversation  Mendelssohn  sat  down 
to  the  piano  and  played  whatever  the  Queen  asked 
of  him.  AVhen  at  length  he  rose,  Prince  Albert 
asked  the  Queen  to  sing,  and  gracefully  choosing 
one  of  Mendelssohn's  own  compositions,  she  com- 
plied with  the  request.  Mendelssohn  of  course 
applauded,  but  the  Queen  laughingly  told  him.  that 
she  had  been  too  frightened  to  sing  well.  "Ask 
Lablache."  (Lablache  was  her  singing  master)  added 
the  Queen,  "he  will  tell  you  that  1  can  sing  better 
than  I  have  done  to-day."  Prince  Albert  and  the 
Queen  were  ever  warm  patrons  and  friends  of 
Mendelssohn. 

During  all  this  time  so  brilliantly  filled  up.  Men- 
delssohn's health  was  continually  and  gradually  de- 
clining. His  nervous  susceptibility  was  such  that 
he  was  often  obliged  to  abstain  from  playing  for 


Vlil  FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BARTHOLDT. 

weeks  together,  his  gentle  and  affectionate 
watching  him  and  keeping  him  as  much  as  possible 
from  composition.  This  was  a  very  difficult  task, 
for  Mendelssohn  was  a  great  worker.  Even  when 
travelling,  he  would  take  out  pen  and  ink  from  his 
pocket  and  compose  at  one  corner  of  the  table, 
whilst  the  dinner  was  getting  ready. 

Little  was  Mendelssohn  prepared,  cither  mentally 
or  physically  at  this  time,  to  bear  the  one  great 
sorrow  that  overwhelmed  this  happy  life,  on  which 
the  sun  of  prosperity  had  ever  shone.  His  sister 
Fanny,  to  whom  many  of  his  letters  were  written, 
and  who  had  been  the  companion  of  his  studies, 
possessing  the  same  tastes  and  a  great  deal  of  the 
same  genius  ;  his  sister  Fanny, who  was  the  nearest 
and  dearest  affection  of  his  life,  was  suddenly  taken 
from  him.  She  had  married  and  was  living  in  Frank- 
fort, where  she  was  the  ornament  of  society,  in  this 
enlightened  and  art-loving  city,  when  in  the  midst 

O  v  " 

of  a  rehearsal  of  Faust,  a  symphony  of  her  own 
composition,  she  was  struck  with  apoplexy  and  fell 
back  dead  in  her  chair.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this 
shock  considerably  increased  the  disease  from  which 
Mendelssohn  was  suffering,  and  though  he  used  to 
rally  and  even  appear  resigned,  this  sorrow,  until  the 
day  of  his  death,  lay  heavy  at  his  heart.  Again  lie 
tried  to  find  health  and  peace  in  travel;  he  went  1o 
Switzerland  with  his  wife,  who  strove  to  keep  him 
from  all  occupation  and  labor,  but  he  would  gently 
urge  her  to  let  him  work.  "  The  time  is  not  far  off, 
when  I  shall  rest ;  I  must  make  the  most  of  the  time 


FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BARTHOLDY.  IX 

given  me."  "  I  know  not  how  short  a  time  it  may 
he,"  would  he  say  to  her.  On  his  return  from  Switzer- 
land and  Baden-Baden,  he  went  to  Berlin; and  onr.f 
more  all  that  remained  of  this  tenderly  attached 
family,  were  united  for  a  short  time.  At  length  he 
returned  to  his  home  in  Leipzig,  serene  as  ever,  but 
worn  to  a  shadow  by  the  acute  and  continued  pains 
in  the  head  for  which  he  could  obtain  no  relief.  On 
the  9th  of  October,  he  went  to  the  house  of  a  friend, 
one  of  the  artists  of  the  Leipzig  concerts,  and  en- 
treated her  to  sing  for  him  a  song  he  had  that 
night  composed.  By  a  strange  coincidence,  this 
nong  began  with  these  words,  "  Vanished  lias  the 
light  of  day."  It  was  Mendelssohn's  last  composi- 
tion, the  last  music  he  heard  on  earth,  for  whilst  the 
lady  was  singing  it,  he  was  seized  with  vertigo  and 
was  carried  insensible  back  to  his  house,  lie  re- 
covered, however,  comparatively  from  this  attack, 
but  a  second  stroke  of  apoplexy  placed  his  life  in 
extreme  peril,  and  a  third,  on  the  3rd  of  November, 
made  him  utterly  unconscious.  Towards  nine  o'clock 
on  the  evening  of  the  4th,  (1847,)  he  breathed  his 
last,  going  to  his  everlasting  rest  as  easily  and  aa 
calmly  as  a  tired  child  sinks  to  sleep.  lie  was  in 
the  thirty-ninth  year  of  his  age. 

Mendelssohn's  death  was  looked  upon,  throughout 
Germany,  as  a  public  calamity.  The  funeral  ceremo- 
nies at  Leipzig  were  of  a  most  imposing  character, 
and  all  the  way  from  Leipzig  to  Berlin,  where  the 
corpse  was  taken,  to  be  buried  in  the  family  vault, 
the  most  touching  honors  greeted  it.  Nearly  all  the 


X  FELIX    MENDELSSOHN    BARTHOLDY. 

crowned  heads  of  Europe  wrote  letters  of  condo- 
lence to  his  widow. 

Mendelssohn  as  a  musician  is  profoundly  original. 
In  his  oratorios  "Paul"  and  "Elijah"  he  has  swerved 
from  the  conventional  religious  style;  eschewing  all 
fugues,  his  oratorios  are  full  of  power,  and  contain 
great  dramatic  effects — at  once  grand  and  solemn. 
His  other  music  is  remarkable  for  the  sweetness  ol 
its  melodies — its  earnest  simplicity.  His  instrumen- 
tality is  scientific  without  being  pedantic  or  heavy, 
and  utterly  devoid  of  antiquated  formalism  ;  though 
pathetic  often,  there  is  always  a  vigor  and  life  in 
all  his  inspirations;  the  low  mournful  wail  that  runs 
through  all  Chopin's  works,  arising  from  a  morbid 
condition  of  health  and  heart,  is  never  felt  in  Men- 
delssohn. There  is  none  of  the  bitterness,  the  long 
suffering  that  artists'  lives  entail  and  that  artists 
infuse  into  their  works,  for  Mendelssohn  was  a 
happy  man  from  first  to  last. 

Mendelssohn  the  happy,  "  the  boy  born  on  a  lucky 
day,"  has  left  a  life-record  that  amid  the  gloomy 
heart-rending  and  often  degrading  histories  of  ar- 
tists, shines  with  a  chaste  and  holy  life.  Nature, 
the  world  and  circumstance  had  done  every  thing 
for  him.  To  the  great  and  all-sufficient  gift  of  his 
musical  genius  he  added  many  others, — he  had  the 
eye  of  a  painter,  the  heart  of  a  poet,  his  intellect  was 
of  the  highest  order  ;  he  was  tall,  handsome,  graceful, 
his  social  position  one  of  the  finest  in  Berlin,  rich, 
and  surrounded  by  the  tendcrest  family  affections. 
With  all  these  advantages,  with  all  the  success 


FELIX  MEXDELSSOHX  BARTIIOLDT.  XI 

that  attended  him,  with  all  the  flattery  lavished  on 
him,  Mendelssohn  was  never  vain  or  proud,  and 
throughout  his  life  was  utterly  free  from  envy.  His 
fine,  fearless,  childlike  spirit,  led  him  through  the 
world,  unconscious  of  evil,  undaunted  by  it.  With 
all  the  temptations  that  must  have  assailed  the 
young,  handsome,  rich  man.  there  is  not  one  moment 
of  his  life  over  which  his  friends  would  wish  to  draw 
a  veil.  On  such  a  life  as  that  of  Felix  Mendels- 
sohn, it  is  good  for  every  one  to  look,  for  once,  genius 
is  not  set  forth  as  a  dazzling  screen  to  hide  and  to 
excuse  disorder  and  crime,  but  genius,  that  one 
great  gift  from  heaven,  was  employed  as  heaven 
would  have  directed  it,  each  action,  each  succeeding 
year  of  his  life,  bringing  forth  in  various  but  har- 
monious ways,  that  extraordinary  moral  and  intel- 
lectual worth,  that  rare  beauty  of  character  that 
endeared  him  to  all  who  knew  him,  ensured  him 
the  unvarying  love  of  kindred  and  friends,  and  the 
admiration  of  the  whole  world. 


PREFACE. 


LAST  year  a  paragraph  was  inserted  in  the  news- 
papers, request  in?  any  one  who  possessed  letters 
From  Felix  Memlrlssolm  Bartholdy  to  send  them  to 
Professor  Droysen.  or  to  myself,  with  the  view  of 
completing  a  selection  from  his  correspondence 
which  we  contemplated  publishing.  Our  design  in 
this  was  twofold. 

In  the  first  place-,  we  wished  to  offer  to  the  public 
in  Mendelssohn's  own  words,  which  always  so  truly 
and  faithfully  mirrored  his  thoughts,  the  most  genu- 
ine impression  of  his  character;  and  secondly,  we 
thought  that  the  biographical  elements  contained 
ill  such  a  correspondence,  might  be  of  infinite  use 
in  the  compilation  of  a  memoir — which  we  reserve 
for  a  future  day — and  serve  as  its  precursor  and 
basis. 

There  are  difficulties,  however,    opposed    to  the 

immediate  fulfilment  of  our  original  purpose  to  its 
B*  (xiii) 


XIV  PKKFACE. 

full  extent;  and  at  present  it  is  impossible  to  decide 
when  these  can  be  removed. 

T  have,  therefore,  formed  the  resolution  to  carry 
out  my  plan  in  the  meantime  within  more  circuin 
scribed  limits,  but  which  leaves  me  unfettered. 

On  Mendelssohn's  return  from  his  first  visit  to 
England,  in  the  year  If29,  he  came  to  Berlin  for  a 
short  time  to  attend  a  family  festivity,  and  thence 
in  1830  proceeded  to  Italy,  returning-  through 
Switzerland  to  France,  and  in  the  beginning  of 
1832  visiting  England  for  the  second  time. 

This  period,  which  to  a  certain  degree  forms  a 
separate  section  of  his  life,  and  which,  through  the 
vivid  impressions  it  made,  assuredly  exercised  an 
important  influence  on  Mendelssohn's  development 
(we  may  mention  that  he  was  only  one-and-twenty 
at  the  commencement  of  his  journey),  supplies  us 
with  a  number  of  letters  addressed  to  his  parents, 
and  to  his  sisters.  Fanny  and  Rebecca,  as  well  as  to 
myself.  T  have  also  added  some  communications  of 
the  same  date,  to  various  friends,  partly  entire  and 
partly  in  extracts,  and  now  present  them  to  the 
public  in  Iheir  original  integrity. 

Those  who  were  personally  acquainted  with  Men- 
delssohn, and  who  wish  once  more  to  realize  him  as 
he  was  when  in  life, — and  those  also  who  would  be 


PREPACK.  XV 

glad  to  acquire  a  more  definite  idea  of  bis  individu- 
ality than  can  be  found  in  the  general  inferences 
deduced  from  his  musical  creations, — will  not  lay 
down  ihese  letters  dissatisfied.  Along  with  this 
particular  source  of  interest  they  offer  a  more  uni- 
versal one.  as  they  prove  how  admirably  Mendels- 
sohn's superior  nature,  and  perceptions  of  Art, 
mutually  pervaded  and  regulated  each  other. 

With  this  view,  it  appeared  to  me  a  duty  to  give 
to  the  public  these  letters,  stored  up  in  the  peaceful 
home  for  which  they  were  originally  destined  and 
exclusively  intended,  and  thus  to  make  them  acces- 
sible to  a  more  extended  circle.  They  begin  by  a 
visit  to  Goethe.  May  his  words  then  accompany 
these  Letters,  as  an  appropriate  convoy : — 


PAUL  MENDELSSOHN  BARTUOI.DT. 

BERLIN,  Ma>-cht  1861. 

*   "  Was  in  der  7eitcn  BUdcrsaal 
Jcmals  1st  trcfflich  gewescn, 
Das  wird  iminer  cint-r  einmal 
Wicdi'j  aurfrischen  uiid  lesen." 


LETTERS. 


Weimar,  May  2ist,  18^0. 

XEVKR.  in  the  whole  course  of  my  travels,  dc  I 
remember  a  more  glorious  and  inspiriting  day  for  a 
journey  than  yesterday.  At  an  early  hour  in  the 
morning  the  sky  was  grey  and  cloudy,  but  the  sun 
presently  burst  forth;  the  air  was  cool  and  fresh, 
and  being  Ascension  Sunday  the  people  were  all 
dressed  in  their  best.  In  one  village  I  saw  them 
crowding  into  church  as  I  passed,  in  another  coming 
away  from  divine  service,  and.  last  of  all,  playing 
at  bowls.  The  gardens  were  bright  with  tulips,  and 
I  drove  quickly  past,  eagerly  looking  at  everything. 
At  "\Veissenfels  they  gave  me  a  little  basket  car- 
riage, and  at  Xaumburg  an  open  droschky.  My 
cflects.  including  my  hat  and  cloak,  were  piled 
upon  it  behind.  1  bought  a  few  bunches  of  lilies-of- 
Ihe-viHey.  and  thus  I  travelled  on  through  the 
country,  as  if  on  a  p'easure  excursion. 

Some  collegians  came  up  to  rne  beyord  Xaum- 
burg. and  envied  me.  We  then  drove  past  Presi- 
dent G .  seated  in  a  small  carriage,  which 


V  MENDELSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 

evidently  had  some  difficulty  in  containing1  him.  and 
his  daughters  or  wives;  in  short,  the  two  ladies 
with  him,  who  appeared  equally  envious  of  my 
position.  We  actually  trotted  up  the  Ko'seu  Hill, 
for  the  horses  scarcely  drew  bridle,  and  overtook 
several  heavily-la-.lcn  carnages,  the  drivers  of  which 
no  doubt  also  envied  me,  for  I  was  really  to  be 
envied.  The  scenery  had  a  charming  air  of  spring — 
so  cheerful  and  gay,  and  blooming.  The  sun  sank 
solemnly  behind  the  hills,  and  presently  we  came  up 
with  the  Russian  minister  and  his  suite,  in  two 
icavy  carriages,  each  with  four  horses,  in  true 
"Kmdcrous  official  array ;  and  my  light  droschky 
larted  past  him  like  a  hare. 

In  the  evening  I  got  a  pair  of  restive  horses,  so 
Jiat  I  had  my  little  annoyance  also,  (according  to 
my  theory,  enhancing  pleasure,)  and  not  a  single 
bar  did  I  compose  all  day,  but  enjoyed  complete 
idleness.  It  was  a  delicious  day,  and  one  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  I  close  this  description  with  the 
remark,  that  the  children  in  Eckartsberge  dance 
merry  rounds  hand-in-haud.  just  as  ours  do  at  home, 
and  that  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  did  not  ip 
the  least  disturb  them,  in  spite  of  his  distinguished 
air ;  I  should  have  liked  to  join  in  their  game. 

May  24th. 

I  wrote  this  before  going  to  see  Goethe,  early  in 
the  forenoon,  after  a  walk  in  the  park  ;  but  I  could 
not  find  a  moment  to  finish  my  letter  till  now.  I 
shall  probably  remain  here  for  a  couple  of  days. 


TXTERrnrR?"    WITH    OOETHE.  3 

which  is  no  sacrifice,  for  I  never  saw  the  old  gentle- 
man so  cheerful  and  aniiahle  as  on  this  occasion,  or 
so  talkative  and  communicative.  My  especial  rea- 
son however  for  staying  two  days  longer,  is  a  very 
agreeable  one,  ami  makes  me  almost  vain,  or  I 
ought  rather  to  say  proud,  and  I  do  not  intend  to 
keep  it  secret  from  yen. — Goethe,  yon  must  know, 
sent  me  a  letter  yesterday  addressed  to  an  artist 
here,  a  painter,  which  I  am  to  deliver  myself;  and 
Ottilie  confided  to  me  that  it  contains  a  commission 
to  take  my  portrait,  as  Goethe  wishes  to  place  it  in  a 
collection  of  likenesses  he  has  recently  commenced 
of  his  friends.  This  circumstance  gratified  me  ex- 
ceedingly; as  however  I  have  not  yet  seen  the 
complaisant  artist  who  is  to  accomplish  this,  nor  has 
he  seen  me.  it  is  probable  that  I  shall  have  to  remain 
here  until  the  day  after  to-morro\v.  I  don't  in  the 
least  regret  this,  for.  as  I  have  told  you,  I  live  a 
most  agreeable  life  here,  and  thoroughly  enjoy  the 
society  of  the  old  poet.  I  have  dined  with  him 
every  day,  and  am  invited  again  to-day.  This  even- 
ing there  is  to  be  a  party  at  his  house,  where  I  am 
to  play.  It  is  quite  delightful  to  hear  him  conver- 
sing on  every  subject,  and  seeking  information  on 
all  points. 

I  must  however  tell  yon  everything  regularly  and 
in  order,  so  that  you  may  know  each  separate  detail. 

Early  in  the  day  I  went  to  see  Ottilie,  who,  though 
still  delicate,  and  often  complaining.  I  thought 
more  cheerful  than  formerly,  and  q  lite  as  kind  and 
amiable  as  ever  towards  myself.  We  have  been 


4  MENDELSSOHN  S    LETTEKS. 

constantly  too-other  since  then,  and  it  has  been  a 
source  of  much  pleasure  to  me  to  know  her  more 
intimately.  Ulrikc  is  more  agreeable  and  charming 
than  formerly;  a  certain  earnestness  pervades  her 
whole  nature,  and  she  has  now  a  degree  of  repose, 
and  a  depth  of  feeling,  that  render  her  one  of  the 
most  attractive  creatures  I  have  ever  met.  The 
two  boys,  Walter  and  Wolf,  are  lively,  studious, 
cordial  lads,  and  to  hear  them  talking  about 
"  Grandpapa's  Faust,"  is  most  pleasant. 

But  to  return  to  my  narrative.  I  sent  Zelter's 
letter  at  once  to  Goethe,  who  immediately  invited 
me  to  dinner.  I  thought  him  very  little  changed 
in  appearance,  but  at  first  rather  silent  and  apa- 
thetic ;  1  think  he  wished  to  see  how  1  demeaned 
myself.  I  was  vexed,  and  thought  that  possibly  he 
was  always  now  in  this  mood.  Happily  the  conver- 
sation turned  on  the  Frauen-Vcrnne  in  AVeimar.  and 
on  the  'Chaos,'  a  humorous  paper  circulated  among 
themselves  by  the  ladies  here,  I  having  soared  so 
high  as  to  be  a  contributor  to  this  undertaking. 
All  at  once  the  old  man  became  quite  gay,  laughing 
at  the  two  ladies  about  their  charities  and  intellect- 
ualism,  and  their  subscriptions  and  hospital  work, 
which  he  seems  cordially  to  detest.  lie  called  on 
me  to  aid  him  in  his  onslaught,  and  as  1  did  not 
require  to  be  asked  twice,  he  speedily  became  just 
what  he  used  to  be,  and  at  last  more  kind  and  con- 
fidential than  I  had  ever  seen  him.  The  assault 
soon  became  general.  The  'Robber  Bride'  of  Ries, 
lie  said  contained  aU  that  an  artist  in  these  days 


GOETHE.  S 

required  to  live  happily. — a  robber  and  a  bride; 
then  he  attacked  the  young  people  of  the  present 
day  for  their  universal  tendency  to  languor  and 
melancholy,  and  related  the  story  of  a  young  lady 
to  whom  he  had  once  paid  court,  and  who  also  felt 
some  interest  in  him  ;  a  discussion  on  the  exhibi- 
tions followed.,  and  a  fancy  bazaar  fur  the  poor, 
where  the  ladies  of  Weimar  were  the  shopwomen, 
and  where  he  declared  it  was  impossible  to  purchase 
anything  because  the  young  people,  made  a  private 
agreement  among  themselves,  and  hid  the  different 
articles  till  tl.c  proper  purchasers  appeared. 

After  dinner  he  ail  at  once  began — "(Jute  Kin- 
der— hubsche  Kinder — muss  immer  lustig  sein — 
tolles  Yolk,"  etc.,  his  eyes  looking  like  those  of  a 
drowsy  old  lion.  Then  he  begged  me  to  play  to 
hhn,_and  said  it  seemed  strange  that  he  had  heard 
no  music  for  so  long;  that  he  supposed  we  had 
made  great  progress,  but  he  knew  nothing  of  it. 
He  wished  me  to  tell  him  a  great  deal  on  the 
subject,  saying  "Do  let  us  have  a  little  rational 
conversation  together ;"  and  turning  to  Ottilie.  he 
said,  "No  doubt  you  have  already  made  your  own 
wise  arrangements,  but  they  must  yield  to  my 
express  orders,  which  arc,  that  you  must  make  tea 
here  this  evening,,  that  we  may  be  all  together 
again."  AVhcn  in  return  she  asked  him  if  it  would 
not  make  him  too  late,  as  Kiemer  was  coming  to 
work  with  him,  he  replied,  "As  you  gave  your  chil- 
dren a  holiday  from  their  Latin  to-day,  that  they 
might  hear  Felix  play,  I  think  you  might  also  give 
1* 


6  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

me  one  day  of  relaxation  from  my  work."  lie 
invited  me  to  return  to  dinner,  and  I  played  a  great 
deal  to  him  in  the  evening. 

My  three  Welsh  pieces,  dedicated  to  three  En- 
glish sisters,  have  great  success  here;*  and  I  am 
trying  to  rub  up  my  English.  As  I  bad  begged 
Goethe  to  address  me  as  thou,  he  desired  Ottilic  to 
say  to  me  on  the  following  day,  in  that  case  1  mus' 
remain  longer  than  the  two  days  1  had  fixed,  other- 
wise he  could  not  regain  the  more  familiar  habit  I 
wished.  He  repeated  this  to  me  himself,  saying  that 
he  did  not  think  I  should  lose  much  by  staying  a 
little  longer,  and  invited  me  always  to  dine  with 
him  when  I  had  no  other  engagement.  I  have  con- 
sequently been  with  him  every  day,  and  yesterday  I 
told  him  a  great  deal  about  Scotland, and  Hengsten- 
berg.  and  Spontini,  and  Hegel's  'Esthetics. 'f  He 
sent  me  to  Tiefurth  with  the  ladies,  but  prohibited 
my  driving  to  Berka.  because  a  very  pretty  girl  lived 
'here,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  plunge  me  into  misery. 

I  thought  to  myself,  this  was  indeed  the  Goethe 
of  wl-om  people  will  one  day  say,  that  he  was  not 
one  single  individual,  but  consisted  of  several  little 
Goel.liidi'.n.  1  am  to  play  over  to  him  to-day  various 
pieces  of  1'ach.  Haydn,  and  Mozart,  and  thus  lead 
hiiii  on.  as  he  said,  to  the  present  clay. 


*  Three  pieces  for  (lie  piano,  composed  in  ISiW  for  the  album  of 
tliree  y.mnj.'  Kn-li-.li  ladies;  sub-equ.'iitly  published  as  Opus  18. 

f  Felix  Mendelssohn  attended  the  Berlin  University  as  a  r.iatri- 
ciliated  student  for  more  than  a  year;  it  va-t  number  of  sheets 
written  by  him  at  this  period,  duriuj  the  lectures,  are  still  extant. 


A    PARTY    AT    GOETHF/S.  7 

I  should  indeed  have  been  very  foolish  to  have 
regretted  my  delay ;  besides.  I  am  a  conscientious 

traveller,  and  have  seen  the  Library,  and  '  Iphigeuia 
in  Aulis.'     Hummel  has  struck  out  all  the  octaves, 

etc. 

FELIX. 


Weimar,  May   25th,  1830. 

I  have  just  received  your  welcome  letter,  written 
on  Ascension  Day.  I  cannot  help  myself,  but  must 
still  write  to  you  from  this  place.  1  will  soon  send 
you.  dear  Fanny,  a  copy  of  my  symphony;  I  am 
having  it  written  out  here,  and  mean  to  forward  it 
to  Leipzig  (where  perhaps  it  will  lie  performed), 
with  strict  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own  hands, 
as  soon  as  possible.  Try  to  collect  opinions  as  to 
the  title  I  ought  to  select  ;  Reformation  Symphony. 
Confession  Symphony,  Symphony  for  a  Church  Fes- 
tival. Juvenile  Symphony,  or  whatever  yen  like. 
"Write  to  me  on  this  subject,  and  instead  of  a  num- 
ber of  stupid  suggestions,  send  me  one  clever  one; 
still,  I  should  rather  like  to  hear  some  of  the 
nonsensical  ones  sure  to  be  devised  on  the  occasion. 

Yesterday  evening  I  was  at  a  party  at  (loet  lie's, 
and  played  alone  the  whole  evenintr — the  Concert- 
Stiick.  the  Invitation  k  la  Ya'se.  and  Weber's  Polo- 
naise in  <'.  my  three  Welsh  pieces,  and  my  Scotch 
Konata.  It  was  over  by  ten  o'clock,  but  I  of  course 
stayed  till  twelve  o'clock,  when  w  had  all  sorts  of 


8  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

fun,  dancing  and  singing;  so  yon  see  I  lead  a  most 
jovial  life  here.  The  old  gentleman  goes  to  his 
room  regularly  at  nine  o'clock,  and  as  soon  as  lie  is 
gone,  we  begin  our  frolics,  and  never  separate 
before  midnight. 

To-morrow  my  portrait  is  to  be  finished  ;  a  large 
black-crayon  sketch,  and  very  like;  but  1  look 
rather  sulky.  Goethe  is  so  friendly  and  kind  to  me, 
that  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  him  sufficiently,  or 
what  to  do  to  deserve  it.  In  the  forenoon  he  likes 
me  to  play  to  him  the  compositions  of  the  various 
great  masters,  in  chronological  order,  for  an  hour, 
and  also  tell  him  the  progress  they  have  made, 
while  he  sits  in  a  dark  corner,  like  a  Jupiter  tnnavs, 
his  old  eyes  flashing  on  me.  lie  did  not  wish  to 
hear  anything  of  Beethoven's,  but  I  told  him  that 
I  could  not  let  him  off.  and  played  the  first  part  of 
the  Symphony  in  C  minor.  It  seemed  to  have  a 
singular  effect  on  him:  at  first  he  said,  "This 
causes  no  emotion,  nothing  but  astonishment  :  it  is 
grandios."  lie  continued  grumbling  in  this  way, 
and  after  a  long  pause  he  began  again, — •'  It  is,  very 
grand,  very  wild:  it  makes  one  fear  that  the  house 
is  about  to  fall  down  :  and  what  must  it  be  when 
played  by  a  number  of  men  together!''  IKu'ing 
dinner,  in  the  midst  of  another  subject,  he  alluded 
to  it  again.  You  know  that  I  dine  with  him  every 
day,  when  he  questions  me  very  minutely,  and  is 
always  so  gay  and  communicative  after  dinner,  that 
we  generally  remain  together  alone  for  an  hour 
while  he  speaks  on  uninterruptedly. 


I  have  no  greater  pleasure  than  when  he  brings 
out  engravings,  and  explains  them  to  me,  or  gives 
his  opinion  of  Krnani,  or  Lamartine's  Elegies,  or 
the  theatre,  or  pretty  girls.  He  has  several  times 
lately  invited  people,  which  he  rarely  does  now, 
so  that  most  of  the  guests  had  not  seen  him 
for  a  long  time.  I  then  play  a  great  deal,  and  he 
compliments  me  before  all  these  people,  and  '•  ijanz 
st(ii>i.'))d~'  is  his  favourite  expression.  To-day  he 
has  invited  a  number  of  Weimar  beauties  on  my 
iccount,  because  he  thinks  that  I  ought  to  enjoy 
the  society  of  young  people.  If  I  go  up  to  him  on 
such  occasions,  he  says,  -'.My  young  friend,  you 
must  join  the  ladies,  and  make  yourself  agreeable 
to  them."  I  am  not  however  devoid  of  tact,  so  I 
contrived  to  have  him  asked  yesterday  whether  I 
did  not  come  too  often;  but  he  growled  out  to 
Ottilie,  who  put  the  question  to  him,  that  "he  must 
now  begin  to  speak  to  me  in  good  earnest,  for  I  had 
euch  clear  ideas,  that  he  hoped  to  learn  much  from 
me."  I  became  twice  as  tall  in  my  own  estimation, 
when  Ottilie  repeated  this  to  me.  He  said  so  to 
me  himself  yesterday;  and  when  he  declared  that 
there  were  many  subjects  he  had  at  heart  that  I 
must  explain  to  him,  1  said,  "Oh,  certainly!"  but 
I  thought,  "This  is  an  honour  I  can  never  forget," — • 
often  it  is  the  very  reverse. 

FELIX. 


10  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Munich,  June   6th,  1830. 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  written  to  you,  and 
I  fear  you  may  have  been  anxious  on  my  account, 
Y"ou  must  not  be  angry  with  me,  for  it  was  really 
no  fault  of  mine,  and  J  have  been  not  a  little  an- 
noyed about  it.  1  expedited  my  journey  as  well  as 
1  could,  inquiring'  everywhere  about  diligences,  and 
invariably  receiving  false  information.  1  travelled 
through  one  niu'ht  on  purpose  to  enable  me  to 
write  to  you  by  this  day's  post,  of  which  I  was  told 
at  Xurnberg;  and  when  at  last  I  arrive,  I  find  that 
no  post  leaves  here  to-day:  it  is  enough  to  drive 
one  wild,  and  I  feel  out  of  all  patience  with  Ger- 
many and  her  petty  Principalities,  her  different 
kinds  of  money,  her  diligences,  which  require  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  for  a  German  mile,  and  her 
Thuringian  forests,  where  there  is  incessant  rain 
and  wind, — nay,  even  with  her  'Fidelio'  this  very 
evening,  for.  though  dead  beat,  I  must  do  my  duty 
by  going  to  see  it,  when  J  would  far  rather  go  to  bed. 
Pray  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  or  scold  me  for  my 
delay  in  writing  ;  I  do  assure  you  that  this  very 
night  while  I  was  travelling,  I  thought  1  saw  peep- 
ing through  the  clouds  the  shadow  of  your  threat- 
ening finger ;  but  I  shall  now  proceed  to  explain 
why  I  could  not  write  sooner. 

Some  days  after  rny  last  letter  from  AVeimar.  I 
wished,  as  I  told  you,  to  set  off  for  this  place,  and 
said  so  during  dinner  to  Goethe,  who  made  no 
reply.  After  dinner  however  he  withdrew  with 
Ottilie  into  the  recess  of  a  window,  and  said,  "You 


INTERCOURSE    WITH    GOETHE.  11 

must  persuade  him  to  remain."  She  endeavoured  to 
prevail  on  me  to  do  so,  and  walked  up  and  down  in 
the  garden  with  me.  I  wished  however  to  show 
that  I  was  a  man  of  determination,  so  I  remained 
steady  to  my  resolve.  Then  came  the  old  gentle- 
man himself,  and  said  he  saw  no  use  in  my  being  in 
such  a  hurry:  that  he  had  still  a  great  deal  to  tell 
inc.  and  I  had  still  a  great  deal  to  play  to  him  ;  and 
what  I  had  told  him  as  to  the  object  of  my  journey, 
\vas  really  all  nonsense. — Weimar  was  my  present  ob- 
ji'Ct. — and  he  could  not  see  that  I  was  likely  to  find 
in  tubles-d'hOte  elsewhere,  what  I  could  not  obtain 
here  :  1  would  see  plenty  of  hotels  in  my  travels. 
lie  talked  on  in  this  style,  which  touched  my  heart, 
especially  as  Ottilie  and  Ulrike  added  their  persua- 
sions, assuring  me  that  the  old  gentleman  much 
more  often  insisted  on  people  going  away,  than  on 
their  remaining  ;  and  as  no  one  can  be  so  sure  of 
enjoying  a  number  of  happy  days,  that  he  can 
afford  to  throw  away  those;  that  cannot  fail  to  be 
pleasant,  and  as  they  promised  to  go  with  me  to 
Jena,  I  resolved  nut  to  be  a  man  of  determination, 
find  agreed  to  stay. 

Seldom  in  the  course  of  my  life  have  I  so  little 
regretted  any  resolution  as  on  this  occasion,  for  the 
following  day  was  by  i'ar  the  most  delightful  that  I 
ever  passed  in  (Joethe's  house.  After  an  early 
drive,  I  found  old  Goethe  very  cheerful  ;  he  began 
to  converse  on  various  subjects,  passing  from  the 
•Muette  de  Purtici'  to  Walter  Scott,  and  thence  to 
the  beauties  in  Weimar ;  to  the  '  Studeuts,'  aiid  the 


it  ME>DELSSOII1S  S    LETTERS. 

'Robbers,'  and  so  on  to  Schiller ;  then  he  spoke  on 
uninterruptedly  for  more  than  an  hour,  with  the 
utmost  animation,  about  Schiller's  life  and  writings, 
and  his  position  in  Weimar.  He  proceeded  to 
speak  of  the  late  Grand-Duke,  and  of  the  year  1775, 
which  he  designated  as  the  intellectual  spring  of 
Germany,  declaring  that  no  man  living  could  de- 
scribe it  so  well  as  he  could ;  indeed,  it  had  beeu 
his  intention  to  have  devoted  the  second  volume  of 
his  life  to  this  subject;  but  what  with  botany,  and 
meteorology,  and  other  stuff  of  the  same  kind,  for 
which  no  one  cared  a  straw,  he  had  not  yet  been 
able  to  fulfil  his  purpose.  He  proceeded  to  relate 
various  anecdotes  of  the  time  when  he  was  director 
of  the  theatre,  and  when  I  wished  to  thank  him,  he 
said,  "  It  is  mere  chance,  it  all  comes  to  light 
incidentally, — called  forth  by  your  welcome  pres- 
ence." These  words  sounded  marvellously  pleasant 
to  me  ;  in  short,  it  was  one  of  those  conversations 
that  a  man  can  never  forget  so  long  as  he  lives. 
Next  day  he  made  me  a  present  of  a  sheet  of  the 
manuscript  of  'Faust,'  and  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page  he  wrote,  "To  my  dear  young  friend  F.  M.  T>., 
mighty,  yet  delicate  master  of  the  piano — a  friendly 
souvenir  of  happy  May  days  in  1830.  3.  W.  von 
Goethe."  ITe  also  gave  me  three  letters  of  intro- 
duction to  take  with  me. 

If  that  relentless  'Fidelio'  did  not  begin  at  so 
early  an  hour,  I  could  tell  you  much  more,  but  as  it 
is,  I  have  only  time  to  detail  my  farewell  interview 
with  the  old  gentleman.  At  the  very  beginning  of 


PARTING    WITU    HOETHE.  13 

my  visit  to  Weimar,  I  spoke  of  a  print  taken  from 
Adrian  von  Ostade,  of  a  peasant  family  praying, 
which  nine  years  ago  made  a  deep  impression  on 
me.  When  I  went  at  an  early  hour  to  take  leave  of 
Goethe,  1  found  him  seated  beside  a  large  portfolio, 
and  he  said,  "So  you  are  actually  going  away?  I 
must  try  to  keep  all  right  till  you  return  ;  but  at  all 
events  we  won't  part  now  without  some  pious 
feelings,  so  let  us  once  more  look  at  the  praying 
family  together."  lie  told  me  that  I  must  some- 
times write  to  him — (courage!  courage!  I  mean  to 
do  so  r'r.im  this  very  place),  and  then  he  embraced 
me,  and  we  drove  off  to  Jena,  where  the  Frommans 
received  me  with  much  kindness,  and  where  the 
same  evening  I  took  leave  of  Ottilie  and  Ulrike, 
and  came  on  here. 

Nine  o'liuck. — '  Fidelio'  is  over;  and  while  wait- 
ing fur  supper  I  add  a  few  words. 

Scheduler  is  very  much  gone  off;  the  quality  of 
her  voice  has  become  husky ;  she  repeatedly  sang 
flat,  yet  there  were  moments  when  her  expression 
was  so  touching,  that  1  wept  in  my  own  fashion;  all 
the  others  were  bad,  and  there  was  also  much  to 
censure  in  the  performance.  Still,  there  is  great 
talent  in  the  orchestra,  and  the  style  in  which  they 
played  the  overture  was  very  good.  Certainly  our 
(Germany  is  a  strange  land  ;  producing  great  people, 
but  not  appreciating  them;  possessing  many  fine 
singers  and  intellectual  artists,  but  none  sufficiently 
modest  and  subordinate  to  render  their  parts  faith- 
fully, and  without  false  pretension.  Marzeline  intro 


14  MKXDELSSOHX'S    LETTERS. 

duces  all  sorts  of  flourishes  into  her  part ;  Jaquino 
is  a  blockhead;  the  minister  a  simpleton:  and  when  a 
German  like  Beethoven  writes  an  opera,  then  conies 
a  German  like  Stuntz  or  Poissl  (or  whoever  it  may 
have  been)  and  strikes  ont  the  ritournelle,  and 
similar  unnecessary  passages  ;  another  German  adds 
a  trombone  part  to  his  symphonies  ;  a  third  declares 
that  Beethoven  is  overloaded  :  and  thus  is  a  great 
man  sacrificed. 

Farewell !  be  happy  and  merry ;  and  may  all  my 
heartfelt  wishes  for  you  be  fulfilled.  FEL:X 


To  FAXXY  HEXSEL. 

Munich,  June   I4th,  1830. 
My  dearest  Sister, 

I  received  your  letter  of  the  5th  this  morning ;  I 
see  from  it  that  you  are  not  yet  quite  well.  I  wish 
I  were  with  you,  and  could  see  you,  and  talk  to 
you  ;  but  this  is  impossible,  so  I  have  written  a 
song  for  you  expressive  of  my  wishes  and  thoughts. 
You  were  in  my  mind  when  I  composed  it,  and 
I  was  in  a  tender  mood.  There  is  indeed  nothing 
very  new  in  it.  You  know  me  well,  and  what  I  am; 
in  no  respect  am  I  changed,  so  you  may  smile  at 
this  and  rejoice.  I  could  say  and  wish  many  other 
things  for  you,  bat  none  better;  and  this  letter  too 
shall  contain  nothing  else.  You  know  that  I  am 
always  your  own  ;  and  may  it  please  God  to  bestow 
on  you  all  that  I  hope  and  pray. 


15 


Andante. 


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16 


MEXDKT^SOHX  5    LETTERS. 


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TROUBLES    OF    TRAVELMNO. 


17 


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ff  sf         dim. 


Linz,  August   nth,  1830. 
Dearest  Mother, 

li  IIo\v  a  travelling  musician  bore  his  had  hick  iu 
Salzburg'."  A  fragment  from  the  unwritten  journal 
of  Count  F.  M.  B.  (continuation.)  After  I  had 
finished  my  last  letter  to  you,  a  regular  day  of  mis- 
fortunes commenced  for  me.  I  took  up  my  pencil, 
and  so  entirely  destroyed  two  of  my  pet  sketches, 
takeu  in  the  Bavarian  mountains,  that  I  was  obliged 

to  tear  them  from  piy  book,  and  to  throw  them  out 
9* 


18 

of  the  window.  This  provoked  me  exceedingly;  so 
to  divert  my  mind,  I  went  to  the  Capuchin  Iliil  :  of 
course  I  contrived  to  lose  my  way.  and  at.  the  very 
moment,  when  I  at  last  found  myself  on  the  summit, 
it  bejran  to  rain  so  furiously  that  [  was  forced  to 
run  down  again  with  all  speed  under  the  shelter  of 
an  umbrella.  Well!  I  resolved  at  all  events  to 
have  a  look  at  the  monastery  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  so  I  rang  the  bell,  when  I  suddenly  recollected 
that  1  had  not  sufficient  money  to  give  the  monk 
who  was  to  show  the  building,  and  as  this  is  a  kind 
of  thing  that  they  take  highly  amiss,  I  hurried  away 
without  waiting  till  the  porter  appeared. 

I  then  closed  my  packet  of  letters  for  Leipzig, 
and  took  it  myself  to  the  post,  but  there  T  was  t<>ld, 
that  it  must  first  lie  examined  at  the  Custom-house; 
so  thither  I  went.  They  kept  me  wailing  a  whole 
hour,  till  they  composed  a  certificate  of  three  lines, 
and  behaved  so  saucily  that  I  was  forced  to  quarrel 
with  them.  Hang  Sal/burg!  thought  1;  so  1 
ordered  horses  for  J<chl.  where  1  hoped  to  escape 
from  all  my  bad  luck.  Xo  horses  were  to  be  had 
without,  a  permission  from  the  police.  I  went  to 
the  police  office.  "  Xo  permission  can  be  granted 
till  you  bring  your  passport."  Why  pursue  the 
subject  ?  After  innumerable  delays,  and  running 
about  hither  and  thither,  the  wished-for  pnsl-car- 
riage  arrived.  My  dinner  was  over,  my  luggage 
ready,  and  I  thought  that  at  last  all  was  in  good 
train  :  my  bill  and  the  servants  fees  were  paid. 

Just  as  I  reached  the  door,  1  saw   two  handsome 


BARONESS    I'EREIRA.  19 

open  carriage?  approaching  at  a  foot's  pace,  and  the 

people  of  the  inn  hurrying  to  receive  the  travelers, 
who  were  following  on  foot.  I  however  paid  no 
attention  to  the  new  arrivals,  but  jumped  into  my 
carriage.  I  observed,  that  at  the  same  moment, 
one  of  the  travelling  carriages  drew  up  close  to 
mine,  and  that  a  lady  was  seated  in  it, — but  what  u 
lady!  That  you  may  not  instantly  jump  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  had  suddenly  fallen  in  love,  which 
would  have  been  the  crowning  point  of  my  unlucky 
day,  I  must  tell  you  that  she  was  an  elderly  lady; 
but  she  looked  very  amiable  and  benevolent;  she 
wore  a  black  dress,  and  a  massive  gold  chain,  and 
smiled  good-humouredly  when  she  paid  the  postilion 
his  fare.  Heaven  knows  why  1  continued  to  arrange 
:ny  luggage  instead  of  driving  oil'.  I  did  look 
across  continually  at  the  other  carriage,  and  though 
the  lady  was  an  entire  stranger  to  me  1  felt  a  strong 
inclination  to  address  her.  It  might  be  mere  imagi- 
nation on  my  part,  but  I  do  think  that  she  too  looked 
at  the  dusty  traveller  in  his  student's  cap.  At 
length  she  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  stood  close 
to  the  door  of  my  vehicle,  leaning  her  hand  on  it, 
and  I  required  all  my  knowledge  of  the  common 
proprieties  of  travelling,  not  to  get  out  myself  and 
say  to  her,  "Dear  lady,  what  may  your  name  be?" 
Routine  however  conquered,  and  1  called  out  with 
an  air  of  dignity,  "Postilion!  go  on  !"  on  which  the 
lady  quickly  withdrew  her  hand,  and  we  set  off.  I 
felt  in  no  very  pleasant  humour,  and  while  thinking 
over  the  events  of  the  day.  1  fell  asleep. 


20  MEXPELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

A  carriage  with  two  gentlemen  passing  us,  woke 
me  up,  and  the  following  dialogue  ensued  between 
the  postilion  and  myself.  /.  These  gentlemen  are 
coming  from  Ischl,  so  I  shall  probably  find  no 
horses  there.  He.  Oh !  the  two  carriages  that 
stopped  at  the  Inn  were  also  from  Ischl ;  still  there 
is  no  doubt  you  will  get  horses.  /.  Are,  you  sure 
they  came  from  Ischl?  lie.  Quite  sure:  they  go 
there  every  year,  und  were  here  last  summer  also; 
I  drove  them.  It  is  a  baroness  from  Vienna. 
(Heavens !  thought  I,)  and  she  is  dreadfully  rich,  and 
has  such  handsome  daughters.  When  they  went  to 
Berchtesgaden  to  visit  the  mines,  I  drove  them,  and 
very  nice  they  looked  in  their  miner's  dresses:  they 
have  a  grand  estate,  and  yet  they  speak  to  us  quite 
familiarly.  Halt!  cried  I;  what  name? — Don't 
know. — Pereira?* — Not  sure. — Drive  back, — said  I 
in  a  resolute  tone. — If  I  do,  we  shall  not  reach  Ischl 
to-night,  and  we  have  got  over  the  worst  hill ;  you 
can  learn  the  name  at  the  next  stage. — 1  hesitated, 
and  we  drove  on.  They  did  not  know  the  name  at 
the  next  stage,  nor  at  the  following  one  either.  At 
length,  at  the  end  of  seven  long  wearisome  hours, 
we  arrived,  and  before  I  left  the  carriage,  I  said, 
who  were  the  party  who  drove  to  Salzburg  this 
morning  in  two  carriages  ?  and  received  the  quiet 
reply, — Baroness  Pereira;  she  proceeds  to  Gastein 
early  to-morrow  morning,  but  returns  four  or  five 
davs  hence.  Now  I  hud  arrived  at  a  certainty,  and  1 


*  A  relation  of  the  family. 


JOURNEY    TO    VIENNA.  21 

also  spoke  to  her  driver,  who  said  that  none  of  the 
family  were  here.  The  two  gentlemen  I  met  in  a  car- 
riage on  the  road,  were  sons  of  the  Baroness  (the 
very  two  I  had  never  seen).  In  addition  to  all  this,  I 
remembered  a  wretched  portrait  that  I  had  once 

got  a  glimpse  of  at  our  aunt  II 's,  and  the  lady 

in  the  black  dress  was  Baroness  Pereira  !  Heaven 
knows  when  I  may  have  another  opportunity  of 
seeing  her !  I  do  not  think  that  she  ever  could 
have  made  a  more  pleasing  impression  on  me,  and 
I  shall  not  assuredly  soon  forget  her  attractive 
appearance,  and  her  kind  expression  of  counte- 
nance. 

Nothing  is  more  unsatisfactory  than  a  presen- 
timent; we  all  experience  them,  but  we  never 
discover  till  too  late,  that  they  really  were  presen- 
timents. I  would  have  returned  then  and  there, 
and  travelled  through  the  night,  but  I  reflected  that 
I  should  only  overtake  her  at  the  very  moment  of 
her  departure,  or  that  possibly  she  might  have  left 
Salzburg  before  my  arrival,  and  that  I  should  thus 
frustrate  all  the  plan  of  my  journey  to  Vienna.  At 
one  moment  I  thought  of  going  to  Gastein.  but  I 
could  not  help  feeling  that  Salzburg  had  treated 
me  very  badly,  so  I  once  more  said  adieu,  and  went 
to  bed  very  crest-fallen.  Xext  morning  I  desired 
that  her  empty  house  should  be  pointed  out  to  me, 
and  made  a  sketch  of  it  for  you,  dear  mother.  My 
bad  luck,  however,  was  still  growling  in  the  dis- 
tance, for  I  could  find  no  favourable  spot  to  take 
my  sketch  from.  Besides,  they  charged  me  more 


22  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

than  a  ducat  at  the  inn  fur  one  night's  entertain- 
ment, etc.,  etc.  ]  gave  utterance  to  various  ana- 
themas, both  in  English  and  German,  and  drove 
away,  laying  aside  among-  the  tilings  of  the  past. 
Ischl,  Salzburg.  Baroness  Pereira.  and  the  Traunsec; 
and  so  1  came  011  here,  where  1  have  taken  a  day's 
rest. 

To-morrow  I  intend  to  pursue  my  journey,  and 
(I).  V.)  to  sleep  in  Vienna  the  day  after.  I  will 
write  to  you  further  from  thence.  Thus  ended  my 
day  of  misfortunes;  "truth,  and  no  poetry,"  not 
even  Ilie  leaning-  the  hand  against  the  door  of  my 
carriage  is  invention  ;  all  is  a  portrait  taken  from 
life.  The  most  incomprehensible  thing  is  that  I 
should  have  totally  overlooked  Flora,  who  it  seems 
was  also  there,  for  the  old  lady  in  a  tartan  cloak. 

who  went  into  the  inn,  was  Fran  von  "\V ,  and 

the  old  gentleman  with  green  spectacles  who  fol- 
lowed her,  could  not  well  have  been  Flora?  Jn 
short,  when  things  once  take  a  wrong1  turn,  they 
"will  have  their  course.  I  can  write  no  more  to-day, 
for  my  disappointment  is  still  too  recent;  in  my 
next  letter  1  will  describe  the  Salzkammergut,  and 
all  the  beauties  of  my  journey  yesterday.  How 
right  Devrient  was  to  advise  me  to  take  this  route  ! 
The  Traunstein  also,  and  the  Traun  Falls,  are  won- 
derfully fine  ;  and  after  ail.  the  world  is  a  very 
pleasant  world,  and  it  is  fortunate  for  me  that  yon 
art1  in  it.  and  that  1  shall  find  letters  from  you  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  possibly  much  that  id 
agreeable  besides.  Dear  Fanny.  I  mean  now  to 


23 

compose  my  Non  nobis,  and  the  symphony  in  A 
minor.  Dear  llebecca.  if  you  could  hear  me  singing 
"Jin  warmen  Thai"  in  a  spasmodic  fashion,  you 
would  think  it  rather  deplorable;  you  could  sing'  it 
better.  Oh.  Paul  !  can  you  declare  that  you  under- 
stand the  ^chein  Gulden,  AY.  AY.  Gulden,  heavy 
Gulden,  light  Gulden,  Conventions  Gulden,  and  the 
devil  and  his  grandmother's  Gulden  ?  I  don't,  one 
bit.  1  wish  therefore  that  you  were  with  me,  but 
for  many  reasons  besides  this  one.  Farewell  ! 


Presburg,  September  ayth,  1830. 
Dear  Brother, 

ideals  of  bells,  drums  and  music,  carriages  on  car- 
riages, people,  hurrying  in  all  directions,  everywhere 
gay  crowds,  such  is  the  general  aspect  around  me, 
for  to-morrow  is  to  be  the  coronation  of  the  King, 
which  the  whole  city  has  been  expecting  since 
yesterday,  and  are  now  imploring  that  the  sky  may 
clear  up,  and  wake  bright  and  cheerful,  for  the 
grand  ceremony  which  ought  to  have  taken  place 
yesterday  was  obliged  to  be  deferred  on  account  of 
the  torrents  of  rain.  This  afternoon  the  sky  is  blue 
and  beautiful,  and  the  moon  is  now  shining  down 
tranquilly  on  the  tumult  of  the  city.  To-morrow  at 
a  very  early  hour  the  Crown  Prince  is  to  take  his 
oaths  (as  Iving  of  Hungary)  in  the  large  Market- 
place; he  is  then  to  go  to  church  in  grand  proce0 


24  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

sion,  attended  by  a  whole  array  of  bishops  and 
nobles  of  the  realm,  and  afterwards  rides  up  the 
Kbnigsberg,  which  lies  opposite  my  windows,  iu 
order  to  wave  his  sword  towards  the  banks  of  the 
Danube  and  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  in  token 
that  he  takes  possession  of  his  new  realm. 

This  excursion  has  made  me  acquainted  with  a 
new  country;  for  Hungary  with  her  magnates,  her 
high  dignitaries,  her  Oriental  luxury,  and  also  her 
barbarism,  is  to  be  seen  here,  and  the  streets  oiler  a 
spectacle  which  is  to  me  both  novel  and  striking. 
We  really  seem  here  to  approach  closer  to  the  East; 
the  miserably  obtuse  peasants  or  serf's  ;  the  troops 
of  gipsies ;  the  equipages  and  retainers  of  the 
nobles  overloaded  with  gold  and  gems,  ( for  thf» 
grandees  themselves  are  only  visible  through  tha 
closed  windows  of  their  carriages);  then  tiie  singu- 
larly bold  national  physiognomy,  the  yellow  hue, 
the  long  moustaches,  the  soft  foreign  idiom — all 
this  makes  the  most  motley  impression  in  the  world. 

Early  yesterday  I  went  alone  through  the  streets. 
First  came  a  long  array  of  jovial  officers,  on  spirited 
little  horses  ;  behind  them  a  crew  of  gipsies,  making 
music  ;  succeeded  by  Vienna  fashionables,  with  eye- 
glasses and  kid  gloves,  conversing  with  a  Capuchin 
monk  ;  then  a  couple  of  uncivilized  peasants  in 
long  white  coats,  their  hats  pressed  down  on  their 
foreheads,  and  their  straight  black  hair  cut  even  all 
round,  (they  have  reddish-brown  complexions,  a 
languid  gait,  and  an  indescribable  expression  of 
savage  stupidity  and  indifference)  ;  then  came  a 


CORO.VATIOX    OF    THE    KIXG.  25 

couple  of  sharp,  acute-looking  students  of  theology, 
in  their  long  blue  coats,  walking  arm-in-arm  ;  Hun- 
garian proprietors  in  their  dark  blue  national 
costume  ;  court  servants  ;  and  numbers  of  carriages 
every  moment  arriving,  covered  with  mud.  I  fol- 
lowed the  crowd  as  they  slowly  moved  on  up  the  hill, 
and  so  at  last  I  arrived  at  the  dilapidated  castle, 
which  commands  an  extensive  view  of  the  whole 
city  and  the  Danube.  People  were  looking  down 
on  all  sides  from  the  ancient  white  walls,  and  from 
the  towers  and  balconies;  in  every  corner  boys 
were  scribbling  their  names  on  the  walls  for  the 
beneiit  of  posterity;  in  a  small  chamber  (perhaps 
once  on  a  time  a  chapel,  or  a  sleeping-apartment) 
an  ox  was  in  the  act  of  being  roasted  whole,  and  as 
it  turned  on  the  spit,  the  people  shouted  with  de- 
light;  a  succession  of  cannons  bristled  before  the 
castle,  destined  to  bellow  forth  their  appropriate 
thunders  at  the  coronation. 

Below,  on  the  Danube,  which  runs  very  rapidly 
here,  darting  with  the  speed  of  an  arrow  through 
the  pontoon  bridge,  lay  a  new  steamer,  that  had 
just  arrived,  laden  with  strangers:  then  the  exten- 
sive view  of  the  flat  but  wooded  country,  and 
meadows  overflowed  by  the  Danube;  of  the  em- 
bankments and  streets  swarming  with  human  beings, 
and  mountains  clothed  with  Hungarian  vines — all 
tins  was  not  a  little  strange  and  foreign.  Then  the 
pleasant  contrast  of  living  in  the  same  house  with 
the  best  and  most  friendly  people  in  the  world,  and 
finding  novelty  doubly  interesting  in  their  society. 


26  MKXDEI,SSOII.\'S    LETTERS. 

Those  were  really  among  the  happy  days,  dear 
brother,  that  a  kind  Providence  so  often  and  so 
richly  bestows  on  me. 

September  28th,  one  o'clock. 

The  King  is  crowned — the  ceremony  was  wonder- 
fully fine.  How  can  I  even  try  to  describe  it  to 
you  ?  An  hour  hence  we  will  all  drive  back  to 
Vienna,  and  thence  I  pursue  my  journey.  There  is 
a  tremendous  uproar  under  my  windows,  and  the 
Burgher-guards  are  Hocking  together,  but  only  for 
the  purpose  of  shouting  "Vivaf!"  I  pushed  my 
way  through  the  crowd,  while  our  ladies  saw  every- 
thing from  the  windows,  and  never  can  I  forget  the 
effect  of  all  this  brilliant  and  almost  fabulous  mag- 
nificence. 

In  the  great  square  of  the  Hospitallers  the  people 
were  closely  packed  together,  for  there  the  oaths 
were  to  be  taken  on  a  platform  hung  with  cloth  ; 
and  afterwards  the  people  were  to  lie  allowed  the 
privilege  of  tearing  down  the  cloth  for  their  own 
use;  close  by  was  a  fountain  spouting  red  and 
white  Hungarian  wine.  The  grenadiers  could  not 
keep  back  the  people ;  one  unlucky  hackney  coach 
that  stopped  for  a  moment  was  instantly  covered 
with  men,  who  clambered  on  the  spokes  of  the 
wheels,  and  on  the  roof,  and  on  the  box.  swarming 
on  it  like  ants,  so  that  the  coachman,  unable  to 
drive  or,  without  becoming  a  murderer,  was  forced 
to  wait  quietly  where  he  was.  When  the  procession 
arrived,  which  was  received  bare-headed,  1  had  the 


COROXATIOX    OF    THE    KIXO.  1 1 

utmost  difficulty  in  taking  off  my  hat.  and  holding 
it  above  my  In.- ad  ;  an  old  Hungarian,  however, 
behind  me.  wlii.se  view  it  intercepted,  quickly  de- 
vised a  remedy,  for  without  ceremony  he  made  a 
snatch  at  my  unlucky  hat.  and  in  an  instant  flat- 
tened  it  to  the  size  of  a  cup  ;  then  they  yelled  as  if 
they  had  all  been  spitted,  and  fought  for  the  cloth  :  in 
short  they  were  a  mob  ;  but  my  Magyars  !  the 
fellows  look  as  if  they  were  born  noblemen,  and 
privileged  to  live  at  ease.  looking  very  melancholy, 
but  riding  like  the  devil. 

AVheu  the  procession  descended  the  hill,  first 
came  the  court  servants,  covered  with  embroidery, 
the  trumpeters  and  kettle  drums,  the  heralds  and  all 
that  class,  and  then  suddenly  galloped  along  the 
street  a  mad  Count,  en  p.'i://tc  carriers,  his  horse 
plunging  and  capering,  and  the  caparisons  edged 
with  gold:  the  Count  himself  a  mass  of  diamonds, 
rare  herons'  plumes,  and  velvet  embroidery  (though 
he  had  not  yet  assumed  his  state  uniform,  being 
bound  to  ride  so  madly- -Count  Sandur  is  the  name 
of  this  furious  cavalier.)  lie  had  an  ivory  sceptre 
in  his  hand  with  which  lie  urged  on  his  horse, 
causing  it  each  time  to  rear,  and  to  make  a  tremen- 
dous bound  forward. 

AVlien  his  wild  career  was  over,  a  procession  of 
about  sixty  more  magnates  arrived,  all  in  the  same 
fantastic  splendour,  with  handsome  coloured  tur- 
bans, twisted  moustaches,  and  dark  eyes.  One  rode 
a  white  horse  covered  \vith  a  gold  net  :  another  r. 
dark  trr.'v.  the  iridle  ar.d  housings  studded  with 


28  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

diamonds  ;  then  came  a  black  charger  with  purple 
cloth  caparisons.  One  magnate  was  attired  from 
head  to  foot  in  sky  blue,  thickly  embroidered  with 
gold,  a  white  turban,  and  a  long  white  dolman  ; 
another  in  cloth  of  gold,  with  a  purple  dolman ; 
each  one  more  rich  and  gaudy  than  the  other,  and 
all  riding  so  boldly  and  fearlessly,  and  with  such 
deliant  gallantry,  that  it  was  quite  a  pleasure  to 
look  at  them.  At  length  came  the  Hungarian 
Guards,  with  Esterhazy  at  their  head,  dazzling  in 
gems  and  pearl  embroidery.  How  can  I  describe 
the  scene  ?  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  procession 
deploy  and  halt  in  the  spacious  square,  and  all  the 
jewels  and  bright  colours,  and  the  lofty  goldeu 
mitres  of  the  bishops,  and  the  crucifixes  glittering 
in  the  brilliant  sunshine  like  a  thousand  stars  ! 

Well,  to-morrow,  God  willing,  I  proceed  on  my 
journey.  Now,  dear  brother,  you  have  a  letter,  so 
pray  write  soon,  and  let  me  hear  how  you  are  get- 
ting on.  So  you  have  had  an  6meute  in  Berlin  ? 
and  that,  too,  an  tmeute  of  tailors'  apprentices  ? 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Once  more  I  send  you  my 
farewell  from  Germany,  my  dear  parents,  and 
brother  and  sisters.  I  am  leaving  Hungary  for, 
Italy,  and  thence  I  hope  to  write  to  you  more  fre- 
quently and  more  at  leisure.  Be  of  good  cheer, 
dear  Paul,  and  go  forwards  in  a  confident  spirit ; 
rejoice  with  those  that  rejoice,  and  do  not  forget 
the  brother  who  is  wandering  about  the  world. 

Yours,  FELIX. 


JOURXEY    TO    VENICE.  29 

Venice,  October  loth,  1830 

Italy  at  last  !  and  what  I  have  all  my  life  consi- 
dered as  the  greatest  possible  felicity,  is  now  begun, 
and  I  am  basking  in  it.  The  day  has  been  so  fruit- 
ful in  enjoyment,  that  I  must,  now  that  it  is  evening, 
endeavour  to  collect  my  thoughts  a  little  to  write  to 
you.  my  dear  parents,  and  to  thank  you  for  having 
bestowed  such  happiness  on  me.  You  also,  my 
dear  brother  and  sisters,  are  often  in  my  thoughts. 
How  much  I  wish  for  you,  Paul,  to  be  with  me  here, 
once  more  to  enjoy  your  delight  in  our  rapid  travels 
by  sea  and  by  land  ;  and  I  should  like  to  prove  to 
you.  Hensel.  that  the  "Assumption  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin"  is  the  most  divine  work  ever  produced  by 
the  hands  of  man.  You  are  not  here,  however,  so 
I  am  obliged  to  give  vent  to  my  enthusiasm  in  bad 
Italian  to  the  laquais  de  place,  who  stands  still  and 
listens. 

1  shall  however  become  quite  confused,  if  things 
are  to  go  on  as  they  have  done  on  this  first  day, 
when  every  hour  brought  with  it  so  much  never  to 
be  forgotten,  that  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  suffi- 
cient grasp  of  intellect  to  comprehend  it  all  pro- 
perly. I  saw  the  "Assumption,"  then  a  whole 
gallery  of  printings  in  the  Manfrini  Palace  ;  then 
a  church  festival  in  the  church  where  hangs  Titian  s 
St.  Peter;  afterwards  St.  Mark's,  and  in  the  after- 
noon I  had  a  row  on  the  Adriatic,  and  visited  the 
public  gardens,  where  the  people  lie  on  the  grass 
and  eat.  i  then  returned  to  the  Piazza  of  St. 
Mark,  where  in  the  twilight  there  is  always  an  im 


30  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

mense  crowd  and  crush  of  people;  and  all  this  I 
was  obliged  to  sec  to-day,  because  there  is  so  much 
that  is  novel  and  interesting  to  be  seen  to-morrow. 

But  I  must  now  relate  methodically  how  1  came 
hither  by  water,  (  for,  as  Telemachus  says,  to  do  so 
by  land  would  be  no  easy  matter,)  and  so  I  begin 
my  history  at  Gratz,  which  is  certainly  the  most 
tiresome  hole  in  the  world,  and  where  you  yawn  all 
day;  and  why  should  I  have  stayed  a  single  day 
longer,  on  account  of  a  (he)  relation  ?  How  can  a 
traveller  with  any  experience  possibly  accept  of  a 
brother,  who  is  also  an  ensign,  in  the  place  of  a 
charming  mother  and  sister  ?  In  short,  the  man  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  me,  for  which  I  forgive 
him  freely,  and  shall  not  defame  him  to  his  mother, 
when  1  perform  my  promise  and  write  to  her ;  but 
he  took  me  to  the  theatre  to  see  the  "  Rehbock," 
the  most  wretched,  silly,  objectionable  piece  that 
the  late  Kotzebue  ever  wrote ;  and  moreover  he 
declared  it  to  be  very  good  and  very  amusing,  and 
this  is  not  to  be  forgiven,  for  this  HrMock  has  such 
a  haut  fjoiit  orfumet,  that  it  could  not  even  please 
a  cat:  but  at  all  events  I  have  left  Gratz,  for  here 
I  am  in  Venice. 

My  old  vctturino  woke  me  up  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  dark,  and  the  horse  crawled  oil'  with  us  both. 
I  thought  of  you,  dear  father,  at  least  a  hundred 
times  during  our  journey  of  two  days.  You  would 
certainly  luve  gone  wild  with  impatience,  and  pos- 
sibly assaulted  the  coachman  also,  for  at  every 
little  declivity,  he  got  slowly  off  the  box,  deliber- 


31 

ately  put  on  the  drag,  and  crept  np  the  smallest 
hill  at  a  snail's  pace;  then  he  thought  lit  to  walk 
beside  his  horses  for  a  time,  to  stretch  his  legs  : 
every  possible  conveyance  passed  us  on  the  road, 
even  when  drawn  by  dogs  or  donkeys,  and  when  at 
last,  at  a  steep  hill,  the  i'ellow  put  on  two  oxen  as 
leaders,  whose  pace  exactly  corresponded  with  that 
of  his  horse,  1  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  not 
belabouring  him.  indeed  I  did  so  more  than  once; 
!;jt  he  then  gravely  assured  me  that  we  were  going 
at  a  capital  pace,  and  I  had  no  means  of  proving 
the  contrary.  Moreover  he  always  passed  the  night 
in  the  most  detestable  pot-houses,  starting  again  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  so  on  arriving  at 
KlagfMifurt  I  was  fairly  worn  out:  but.  when  in 
answer  to  my  question  as  to  the  time  the  Venetian 
diligence  set  out.  I  received  the  answer. — in  an  hour 
hence, — I  seemed  to  revive.  I  was  promised  a  place, 
and  I  also  got  a  good  supper.  The  diligence, 
indeed,  did  not  arrive  for  two  hours  after  its  time, 
having  been  detained  by  deep  s  low  on  the  Sommer- 
ing.  but  still  it  came  at  last.  Three  Italians  were 
inside,  ami  chattered  so  that  I  could  scarcely  get 
to  sleep,  but  my  snoring  fairly  silenced  them  after 
a  time. 

At  last  morning  broke,  and  us  we  drove  into  Re- 
sciutta.  the  driver  said,  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge  there,  no  one  understood  a  word  of  (ierman.  I 
therefore  took  h-ave  of  my  mother  tongue  for  a  long 
time  to  come,  and  we  drove  over  the  bridge.  The 
tjtyi2  of  the  houses  immediately  beyond  wus  entirely 


32  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

different.  The  flat  roofs  with  their  convex  tiles,  the 
deep  windows,  the  high  white  walls,  and  lofty  square 
towers,  all  betokened  another  land.  The  pale  olive 
faces  of  the  men,  the  innumerable  beggars  who  be- 
sieged the  carriage,  the  various  small  chapels, 
brightly  and  carefully  painted  on  every  side  with 
flowers,  the  nuns,  monks,  and  so  forth,  were  all 
symptomatic  of  Italy.  The  monotonous  character 
of  the  whole  scenery  however,  and  of  the  road  we 
were  travelling,  passing  through  bare  white  rocks, 
along  the  banks  of  a  river  with  a  rough  rocky  bed, 
in  summer  creeping  along  in  the  form  of  a  tiny 
brook,  certainly  docs  not  seem  characteristic  of 
Italy.  "I  purposely  made  this  passage  rather 
meagre,  in  order  that  the  sultji-ct  might  be  more 
distinctly  heard,"  says  Abt  Voglcr  ;.  and  I  almost 
think  that  Providence  has  done  pretty  much  tin: 
same  here,  for  when  we  had  passed  Ospedaletto  the 
subject  did  come  out  well,  and  a  fine  sight  it  was.  1 
had  imagined  that  the  first  impression  of  Italy  would 
be  like  that  of  a  sudden  explosion,  violent  and  start- 
ling; I  have  not  hitherto  found  this  to  be  the  case. 
The  effect  produced  on  me  has  been  rather  that  of 
a  genial  warmth,  mildness  and  cheerfulness,  and  an 
indescribable  sensation  of  pervading  content  and 
satisfaction. 

After  passing  Ospedaletto  we  entered  a  plain, 
leaving  the  blue  mountains  behind  us;  the  sun  shone 
bright  and  warm  through  the  foliage  of  the  vines; 
the  road  winding  through  orchards,  in  which  the 
trees  were  connected  bv  trailing  boughs.  I  felt  as 


JOURNEY    TO    VEXICE.  33 

if  I  were  at  home  again,  and  knew  every  object,  and 
was  once  more  about  to  take  possession  of  it  all. 
The  carriage  too  seemed  to  fly  over  the  smooth 
road,  and  towards  evening  we  arrived  at  Udine, 
where  we  passed  the  night,  when  for  the  first  time 
1  ordered  my  supper  in  Italian,  my  tongue  skating 
us  if  on  slippery  ice,  first  gliding  into  English,  and 
then  stumbling  afresh.  Moreover  next  morning  I 
was  famously  cheated,  but  I  did  not  in  the  least 
care,  and  on  we  went.  It  happened  to  be  Sunday, 
and  on  every  side  people  were  coming  along,  in 
bright  southern  costumes,  and  ilowers ;  the  women 
with  roses  in  their  hair.  Light  single-horse  car- 
riages drove  past,  and  men  were  riding  to  church 
on  donkeys  ;  at  the  inns,  groups  of  idlers  were  to 
be  seen  in  the  most  picturesque,  indolent  attitudes: 
among  others,  one  man  placed  his  arm  quietly 
round  his  wife's  waist,  and  swung  round  with  her 
and  then  they  went  on  their  way;  this  sounds  trivial 
enough,  and  yet  it  had  a  pretty  effect.  Venetian 
villas  now  were  occasionally  visible  from  the  road, 
and  by  degrees  became  more  frequent,  till  at  length 
our  way  led  past  houses,  trees,  and  gardens  like  a 
park.  The  whole  country  had  a  gay  festive  air 
as  if  a  Prince  were  expected  to  make  his  grand 
entry,  and  the  vine-branches  with  their  rich  purple 
grapes  hanging  in  festoons  from  the  trees,  made 
the  most  lovely  of  all  festive  wreaths.  The  inhabi- 
tants were  all  gaily  dressed  and  adorned,  and  a  few 
scattered  cypresses  only  enhanced  the  general 
effect. 


Ill  'Proviso  there  was  an  illumination,  paper 
lanterns  suspended  in  every  part  of  the  great 
square,  and  a  large  gaudy  transparency  in  the 
centre!.  Some  most  lovely  girls  were  walking  about, 
in  their  long  white  veils  and  scarlet  petticoats.  It 
was  quite  dark  when  we  arrived  at  Mestre  last 
night,  when  we  trot  into  a  boat,  and  in  a  dead  calm, 
gently  rowed  across  to  Venice.  On  our  passage 
thither,  where  nothing  but  water  is  to  be  seen,  and 
distant  lights,  we  saw  a  small  rock  which  stands  in 
the  midst  of  the  sea;  on  this  a  lamp  was  burning; 
all  the  sailors  took  off  their  hats  as  we  passed,  and 
one  of  them  said,  this  was  the  ''Madonna  of  Tem- 
pests," which  are  often  most  dangerous  and  violent 
here.  "\V<3  then  glided  quietly  into  the  great  city, 
under  innumerable  bridges,  without  sound  of  post- 
horns,  or  rattling  of  wheels,  or  toll-keepers;  the 
passage  now  became  more  thronged,  and  numbers 
of  ships  were  lying  near;  past  the  tlieatr<-,  where 
gondolas  in  long  rows  lie  waiting  for  their  masters, 
just  as  our  own  carriages  do  at  home,  then  into  the 
great  canal,  past  the  church  of  St.  Mark,  the  Lions, 
the  palace  of  the  Doges,  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
The  obscurity  of  night  only  enhanced  my  delight 
on  hearing  the  familiar  names,  and  seeing  the  dark 
outlines. 

And  so  I  am  actually  in  Venice!  Well,  to  day  I 
have  seen  the  finest  pictures  in  the  world,  and  have 
at  last  personally  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  very 
admirable  man,  whom  hitherto  1  only  knew  by  name 
~-l  allude  to  a  certain  Signer  Giorgione,  an  ininii- 


THK    VKNETIAX    MASTERS.  Of) 

table  artist — and  also  to  Pordenone,  who  paints  the 
most  noble  portraits,  both  of  himself  and  many  of 
his  simple  scholars,  in  such  a  devout,  faithful,  and 
pious  spirit,  that  you  seem  to  converse  with  him, 
and  to  feel  an  affection  for  him.  Who  would  not 
have  been  confused  by  all  this?  But  if  I  am  to 
speak  of  Titian,  I  must  do  so  in  a  more  reverent 
mood.  Till  now.  I  never  knew  that  he  was  the  feli- 
citous artist  1  have  this  day  seen  him  to  be.  That 
he  thoroughly  enjoyed  life,  in  all  its  beauty  and  ful- 
ness, the  picture  in  Paris  proves;  but  he  lias  fathomed 
the  depths  of  human  sorrow,  as  well  as  the  joys  of 
Heaven.  His  glorious  "Entombment,"  and  also 
the  "Assumption/'  fully  evince  this.  How  Mary 
floats  on  the  cloud,  while  a  waving  movement  seems 
to  pervade  the  whole  picture;  how  you  see  at  a 
glance  her  very  breathing,  her  awe.  and  piety,  and 
in  short  a  thousand  feelings. — all  words  seem  poor 
and  commonplace  in  comparison  !  The  three  angels 
too,  on  the  right  of  the  picture,  are  of  the  highest 
order  of  beauty. — pure,  serene  loveliness,  so  uncon 
scions,  so  bright  and  so  seraphic.  But  no  more  of 
this  !  or  I  must  perforce  become  poetical,  or  indeed 
am  so  already,  and  this  does  not  at  all  suit  me;  but 
1  shall  certainly  see  it  every  day. 

I  must  however  say  a  few  words  about  the  ''  En- 
tombment.1' as  you  have  the  engraving.  Look  at  it. 
and  think  of  me.  This  picture  represents  the  con- 
clusion of  a  great  tragedy:  so  still,  so  grand,  and 
so  acutely  painful.  Magdalene,  is  supporting  Mary, 
fearing  that  she  will  die  of  anguish  ;  she  endeavours 


SG  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

to  lend  lior  away,  but  looks  round  herself  ouco  more, 
evidently  wishing  to  imprint  this  spectacle  indelibly 
on  her  heart,  thinking  that  it  is  for  the  last  time; 
it  surpasses  everything;  and  then  the  sorrowing 
John,  who  sympathizes  and  suffers  with  Mary;  and 
Joseph,  who  absorbed  in  his  piety,  and  occupied 
with  the  tomb,  directs  and  conducts  the  whole  :  and 
Christ  himself,  lying  there  so  tranquil,  having  en- 
dured to  the  end  :  then  the  blaze  of  brilliant  colour, 
and  the  gloomy  mottled  sky!  It  is  a  composition 
that  speaks  to  my  heart  and  fills  me  with  enthusi- 
a.-m.  and  will  never  leave  my  memory. 

I  believe  few  things  J  have  yet  to  see  in  Italy  will 
affect  me  so  deeply:  but  you  know  that  1  am  devoid 
of  all  prejudices,  and  ]  give  you  a  fresh  proof  of  this 
by  telling  you  that  the  ''Martyrdom  of  St.  Peter," 
IV o in  which  I  expected  the  most,  pleased  me  the 
least  of  the,  three;  it  did  not  strike  me  as  being  a 
complete  whole;  the  landscape,  which  is  very  line, 
seemed  to  me  to  predominate  too  much.  Then  I  was 
dissatisfied  with  the  disposition  in  the  picture  of  hcc 
victims  and  only  o??e  murderer;  (for  the  small  figure 
in  the  distant  background  does  not  remedy  this). 
]  could  not  bring  myself  to  consider  it  a  martyrdt  in. 
I'ut  probably  1  am  in  error,  and  I  intend  to  study  it 
mere  carefully  to-morrow;  my  contemplation  of  it, 
besides,  was  disturbed  by  some  one  strumming  most 
sacrilegiously  on  the  organ,  and  these  sacred  forms 
wen-  forced  to  listen  to  such  miserable  opera  final'-*  ' 
I!ut  this  matters  not  ;  where  such  pictures  arc.  I 
reipiire  no  organist.  I  play  the  organ  in  my  thoughts 


THE    VENETIAN    SCHOOL.  37 

for  myself,  and  feel  as  little  irritated  by  such  trash 
as  I  should  be  by  an  ignorant  rabble.  Titian,  how- 
ever, was  a  man  well  adapted  to  improve  others;  so 
I  shall  try  to  profit  by  him,  and  to  rejoice  that  I  am 
in  Italy.  At  this  moment  the  gondoliers  are  shout- 
ing to  each  other,  and  the  lights  are  reflected  in  the 
depths  of  the  waters  ;  one  is  playing  a  guitar,  and 
singing  to  it.  It  is  a  charming  night.  Farewell! 
and  think  of  me  iu  every  happy  hour  as  I  do  of  you. 

FELIX. 


To  PROFESSOR  ZELTKR.* 

Venice,  October  i6th,  1830. 
Dear  Professor. 

I  have  entered  Italy  at  last,  and  I  intend  this 
letter  to  be  the  commencement  of  a  regular  series 
of  reports,  which  I  purpose  transmitting  to  you,  of 
all  that  appears  to  me  particularly  worthy  of  notice. 
Though  I  only  now  for  the  first  time  write  to  you.  I 
must  beg  you  to  impute  the  blame  to  the  state  of 
constant  excitement  in  which  J  lived,  both  in  Munich 
and  in  Vienna.  It  was  needless  for  me  to  describe  to 
you  the  parties  in  Munich,  which  J  attended  every 
evening,  and  where  I  played  the  piano  more  unre- 
mittingly than  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before  ;  one  suirfe 
succeeding  another  so  closelv,  that  I  reallv  had 


*  Mendelssohn's  iii-tructor  in  tlit>  tlit'ory  of  rrrj-i 

4 


38  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

not  a  moment  to  collect  my  thoughts.  Moreover, 
it  would  not  have  particularly  interested  you,  for 
after  all,  -'good  society  which  does  not  offer  mater- 
ials for  the  smallest  epigram,"  is  equally  vapid  in  a 
letter.  1  hope  that  you  have  not  taken  amiss  my 
long  silence,  and  that  1  may  expect  a  few  lines  from 
you,  even  if  they  contain  nothing  save  that  you  are 
well  and  cheerful. 

The  aspect  of  the  world  at  this  moment  is  very 
bleak  and  stormy,  and  much  that  was  once  thought 
durable  and  unchangeable,  has  been  swept  away  in 
the  course  of  a  couple  of  days.  It  is  then  doubly 
welcome  to  hear  well-known  voices,  to  convince  us 
that  there  are  certain  things  which  cannot  be  anni- 
hilated or  demolished,  but  remain  iirm  and  stead- 
fast. You  must  know  that  I  am  at  this  moment 
very  uneasy  at  not  having  received  any  news  from 
home  for  some  weeks  past.  I  found  no  letters  from 
my  family,  either  at  Trieste  or  here,  so  a  few  lines 
from  you,  written  in  your  old  fashion,  would  both 
cheer  and  gratify  me.  especially  as  it  would  prove 
that  you  think  of  me  with  the  same  kindness  that 
you  have  always  done  from  my  childhood  to  the 
present  time. 

My  family  have  no  doubt  told  you  of  the  exhilara- 
ting impression  made  on  me  by  the  iirst  sight  of  the 
plains  of  Italy,  i  hurry  from  one  enjoyment  to 
another  hour  by  hour,  and  constantly  see  something 
novel  and  fresh  ;  but  immediately  on  my  arrival  1 
discovered  some  masterpieces  of  art.  which  I  study 
w;th  deep  attention,  and  contemplate  daily  for  a 


THE    VENETIAN    SCHOOL.  39 

couple  of  hours  at  least.  These  are  three  pictures 
by  'Titian.  The  "Presentation  of  Mary  as  a  Child 
in  the  Temple:'1  the  "Assumption  of  the  Virgin;" 
and  the  "Entombment  of  Christ."  There  is  also  a 
portrait  by  Giorgionc,  representing  a  girl  with  a 
cithern  in  her  hand,  plunged  in  thought,  and  looking 
forth  from  the  picture  in  serious  meditation  (she  is 
apparently  about  to  begin  a  song,  and  you  feel  as  if 
you  must  do  the  same)  :  besides  many  others. 

To  see  these  alone  would  be  worth  a  journey  to 
Venice;  for  the  iruitfulness.  genius,  and  devotion 
of  the  great  men  who  painted  these  pictures,  seem 
to  emanate  from  them  afresh  as  often  as  you  gaze 
at  their  works,  and  I  do  not  much  regret  that  I 
have  scarcely  heard  any  music  here  ;  for  I  suppose 
I  must  not  venture  to  include  the  music  of  the 
angels,  in  the  "Assumption,"  encircling  Mary  with 
joyous  shunts  of  welcome:  one  gaily  beating  the 
tambourine,  a  couple  of  others  blowing  away  on 
strange  crooked  flutes,  while  another  charming 
aronp  are  singing — or  the  music  floating  in  the 
thoughts  of  the  cithern  player.  I  have  only  once 
heard  anything  on  the  organ,  and  miserable  it 
was.  I  wa'  gazing  at  Titian's  "Martyrdom  of  St. 
Peter"  in  the  Franciscan  Church.  Divine  service 
was  going  on,  and  nothing  inspires  me  with  more 
solemn  awe  than  when  on  the  very  spot  for  which 
they  were  originally  created  and  painted,  those 
ancient  pictures  in  all  their  grandeur,  gradually 
Meal  forth  out.  of  the  darkness  in  which  the  long 
[apse  of  time  has  veiled  them. 


As  I  was  earnestly  contemplating  the  enchanting 
evening  landscape  with  its  trees,  and  angels  among 
the  boughs,  the  organ  commenced.  The  first  sound 
was  quite  in  harmony  with  my  feelings;  but  the 
second,  third,  and  in  fact  all  the  rest,  quickly  roused 
me  from  my  reveries,  and  sent  me  straight  home, 
for  the  man  was  playing  in  church  and  during 
divine  service,  and  in  the  presence  of  respectable 
people,  thus : 

Allegro  confuoco. 

•-A-Siii I--I   -I — 9  -i-x-. m ~  (-, — ' — I. — I ff-t 

\-jp5* -TV- -o  •  <*„*    2  %  •  •  j  *---  -3-sr»^ 

SBerf. 


cetera  animalia. 


with  the  "Martyrdom  of  St.  Peter"  actually  close 
beside  him  !  I  was  therefore  in  no  great  hurry  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  organist.  There  is 
no  regular  Opera  here  at  this  moment,  and  the  gon 
doliers  no  longer  sing  Tasso's  stanzas  ;  moreover, 


LUTHER'S  IIYMXS.  41 

what  I  have  hitherto  seen  of  modern  Venetian  art, 
consists  of  poems  framed  and  glazed  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Titian's  pictures,  or  Rinaldo  and  Armida, 
by  a  new  Venetian  painter,  or  a  St.  Cecilia  by  a 
ditto,  besides  various  specimens  of  architecture  in 
no  style  at  all ;  as  all  these  are  totally  insignificant, 
I  cling  to  the  ancient  masters,  and  study  how  they 
worked.  Often,  al'ter  doing  so.  I  feel  a  musical  in- 
spiration, and  since  I  came  here  I  have  been  busily 
engaged  in  composition. 

Before  I  left  Vienna,  a  friend  of  mine  made  me  a 
present  of  Luther's  Hymns,  and  on  reading  them 
over  I  was  again  so  much  struck  by  their  power,  that 
I  intend  to  compose  music  for  several  next  winter. 
I  have  nearly  completed  here  the  choral  "  Aus  tie  for 
Noth,"  for  four  voices  a  cupdla ;  and  the  Christmas 
hymn.  '•  Vom  Ilimmel  hoch,"  is  already  in  my  head. 
I  wish  also  to  set  the  following  hymns  to  music  : 
''Ach  Gott,  vom  Ilimmel  sieh  darcin,"  "  Wir  glanben 
all'  an  einen  Gott,"  •'  Verleih  nns  Fricden."  ''Mit- 
ten wir  im  Leben  sind,"  and  finally  "  Kin'  feste 
Burg."  The  latter,  however,  it  is  my  intention  to 
compose  tor  a  choir  and  orchestra.  Pray  write  to 
me  about  this  project  of  mine,  and  say  whether  you 
approve  of  my  retaining  the  ancient  melodies  in 
them  all.  but  nut  adhering  to  them  too  strictly: 
i\  r  instance,  if  I  were  to  take  the  first  verse  of 
"  Vom  Ilimmel  hoch  "  as  a  separate  grand  chorus. 
Besides  this.  I  am  hard  at  wurk  at  an  orchestral 
overture,  and  if  an  opportunity  for  an  opera  offered, 
it  would  be  most  welcome. 


42  MENDELSSOHN'S  I.KTTERS. 

I  finished  two  pieces  of  sacred  music  in  Vienna 
—a  choral  in  llirce  movements  for  chorus  and  or- 
chestra (  "  0  !  Ilaupt  roll  Blut  mid  AVunden  "  )  and 
:in  Ave  Maria  for  a  choir  of  eight  voices,  a  cap'-lla. 
The  people  I  associated  with  there  were  so  dissi- 
pated and  frivolous,  that  I  became  quite  spiritually- 
minded,  and  conducted  myself  like  a  divine  among 
them.  Moreover,  not  one  of  the  best  pianoforte 
players  there,  male  or  female,  ever  played  a  note  of 
Beethoven,  and  when  I  hinted  that  he  and  Mo/.art 
were  not  to  be  despised,  they  said.  "  So  you  arc  an 
admirer  of  classical  music  ?" — '"Yes,"  said  I. 

To-morrow  1  intend  to  go  to  Bologna  to  have  a 
glance  at  the  St.  Cecilia,  and  then  proceed  by 
Florence  to  Home,  where  I  hope  (  1).  V.)  to  arrive 
eight  or  ten  days  hence  1  will  then  write  to  you 
more,  satisfactorily.  I  only  wished  to  make  a  begin- 
ning to  day,  and  to  beg  you  not  to  forget  me.  and 
kindly  to  accept  my  heartfelt  wishes  for  your  health 
and  happiness.  Your  faithful 

FELIX. 


Florence,  October  ajrd,  1830. 

Here  am  T  in  Florence,  the  air  warm  and  the  sky 
bright;  everything  is  beautiful  and  glorious,  "wo 
blieb  die  Krde,"  as  (Joethe  says.  1  have  now  re- 
ceived your  letter  of  the  I5rd,  by  which  ]  see  that 
you  are  all  well,  that  my  anxiety  was  needless,  that 
you  are  all  going  on  as  usual,  and  thinking  of  me ; 


ARRIVAL    AT    FLORENCE.  43 

so  I  feel  happy  again,  and  can  now  see  everything, 
and  enjoy  everything,  and  am  able  to  write  to  you; 
in  short,  my  mind  is  at  rest  on  the  main  point.  I 
made  my  journey  here  amid  a  thousand  doubts  and 
fears,  quite  uncertain  whether  to  go  direct  to  Rome, 
because  I  did  not  expect  any  letters  at  Florence. 
Fortunately,  however,  I  decided  on  coming  here, 
and  now  it  is  of  no  consequence  how  the  misunder- 
standing arose,  that  caused  me  to  wait  for  letters  in 
Venice,  while  you  had  written  to  Florence  ;  all  I 
can  promise  is  to  endeavour  in  future  to  be  less 
over-anxious.  My  driver  pointed  out  a  spot  be- 
tween the  hills,  on  which  lay  a  blue  mist,  and  said 
"  Ecco  Firenzc !"  I  eagerly  looked  towards  the 
place,  and  saw  the  round  dome  looming  out  of  the 
mist  before  me.  and  the  spacious  wide  valley  in 
which  the  city  is  situated.  My  love  of  travel  re- 
vived when  at  last  Florence  appeared.  1  looked  at 
some  willow-trees  (as  I  thought)  beside  the  road, 
when  the  driver  said.  "  ]>uon  olio."  and  then  I  saw 
that  they  were  hanging  full  of  olives. 

My  driver,  as  a  genus,  is  undoubtedly  a  most  villa- 
nous  knave,  thief,  and  impostor ;  he  has  cheated  me 
and  half-starved  me,  and  yet  I  think  him  almost 
amiable  from  his  enthusiastic  animal  nature.  About 
an  hour  before  we  arrived  in  Florence  he  said  that 
the  beautiful  scenery  was  now  about  to  commence; 
and  true  it  is  that  the  fair  land  of  Italy  docs  first 
begin  then.  There  are  villas  on  every  height,  and 
decorated  old  walls,  with  sloping  terraces  of  roses 
and  aloes,  flowers  and  grapes  and  olive  leaves,  the 


44 

sharp  points  of  cypresses,  and  the  flat  tops  of  pines, 
all  sharply  defined  against  the  sky;  then  handsome 
square  faces,  busy  life  on  the  roads  on  every  side, 
and  at  a  distance  in  the  valley,  the  blue  city. 

So  I  drove  confidently  into  Florence  in  my  little 
open  carriage,  and  though  I  looked  shabby  and 
dusty,  like  one  coming  from  the  Apennines,  I  cared 
little  for  that.  I  passed  recklessly  through  all 
the  smart  equipages  from  which  the  most  refined 
English  ladies  looked  at  me  ;  while  1  thought  it  may 
one  day  actually  come  to  pass  that  you  who  are  now 
looking  down  on  the  roturicr,  may  shake  hands 
with  him,  the  only  difference  being  a  little  clean 
linen  and  so  forth.  By  the  time  that  we  came  to 
the  baltistc.rio,  I  no  longer  felt  diffident,  but  gave 
orders  to  drive  to  the  Post,  and  then  I  was  really 
happy,  for  I  received  three  letters. — yours  of  the 
22nd  and  the  3rd,  and  my  father's  also.  I  was  now 
quite  delighted,  and  as  we  drove  along  beside  the 
Arno,  to  Schneider's  celebrated  hotel,  the  world 
seemed  once  more  a  very  pleasant  world. 

October  24th. 

The  Apennines  are   really  not  so  beautiful  as  I 

had  imagined  ;  for  the  name  always  suggested  to  me 
richly  wooded,  picturesque  hills,  covered  with  vege- 
tation, whereas  they  are  merely  a  long  chain  ot 
melancholy  bleak  hills  ;  and  the  little  verdure  there 
is,  not  gratifying  to  the  eye.  There  are  no  dwell- 
ings to  be  seen,  no  merry  brooks  or  rills  ;  only  an 
occasional  stream,  it?  br<md  bed  dried  up.  or  a  little 


THE    APENNINES.  45 

water-channel.  Add  to  this  the  shameful  roguery 
of  the  inhabitants:  really,  at  last,  I  became  quite 
confused  and  perplexed,  by  their  incessant  cheating, 
and  could  scarcely  discover  for  what  object  they 
were  lying.  I  therefore,  once  for  all,  invariably 
protested  against  every  demand  they  made,  and 
declared  that  I  would  not  pay  at  all  if  they  asked 
more  than  I  chose  to  give  ;  so  in  this  way  I  managed 
very  tolerably. 

Last  night  I  was  again  in  grand  quarters  :  I  had 
Made  an  agreement  with  the  vetturino  for  board 
and  lodging,  and  all  I  required.  The  natural  con- 
sequence was,  that  Hie  fellow  took  me  to  the  most 
detestable  little  inns,  and  actually  starved  me.  So 
late  yesterday  we  arrived  at  a  solitary  pothouse, 
the  filth  of  which  no  pen  can  describe.  The  stair 
was  strewed  with  heaps  of  dead  leaves  and  firewood  ; 
moreover  the  cold  was  intense,  and  they  invited  me 
to  warm  myself  in  the  kitchen,  which  I  agreed  to 
do.  A  bench  was  placed  for  me  beside  the  fire  ;  a 
whole  troop  of  peasants  were  standing  about,  also 
warming  themselves.  I  looked  quite  regal  from  my 
bench  on  the  hearth  among  this  rough  set  of  fellows, 
who.  in  their  broad-leaved  hats,  lit  up  by  the  fire,  and 
babblim;'  in  their  incomprehensible  dialect,  looked 
vastly  suspicious  characters.  1  made  them  prepare 
my  sou])  under  my  own  eyes,  giving  moreover  good 
advice  on  the  subject ;  but,  after  all,  it  was  not 
eatable. 

I  entered  into  conversation  with  my  subjects 
from  my  throne  on  the  hearth,  and  they  pointed  out 


46  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

to  MS  a  little  hill  in  the  distance  incessantly  vomit- 
ing forth  flames,  which  had  a  singular  effect  in  the 
dark  ("  Raticosa"  is  the  name  of  the  hill),  and  then 
I  was  conducted  to  my  bed-room.  The  landlord 
took  hold  of  the  sackcloth  sheets,  and  said,  "Very 
fine  linen  !"  but  1  slept  as  sound  as  a  bear,  and  be- 
fore falling  asleep  I  said  to  myself,  Now  you  are  in 
the  Apennines:  and  next  morning,  after  getting  no 
breakfast,  my  veiturino  civilly  asked  me  how  I 
liked  my  night's  entertainment.  The  fellow  talked 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  about  politics,  and  the 
present  state  of  France,  abused  his  horse  in  German 
for  being  born  in  Switzerland,  and  spoke  French  to 
the  beggars  who  swarmed  round  the  cabriolet,  while 
I  corrected  many  a  fault  in  his  pronunciation. 

October   2^th. 

I  now  intend  to  go  once  more  to  the  Tribune,  to  be 
inspired  with  feelings  of  reverence.  There  is  a  par- 
ticular place  where  I  like  to  sit,  as  the  little  Venus 
de'  Medici  is  directly  opposite,  and  above,  that  of 
Titian,  and  by  turning'  rather  to  the  left,  I  have  a 
view  of  the  Madonna  del  Cardello,  a  favourite  pic- 
ture of  mine,  and  which  invariably  reminds  me  of 
la  belle  Jardiniere,  and  seems  to  me  a  kindred 
creation;  and  also  the  Fornarina,  which  made  no 
great  impression  on  me  from  the  first,  for  I  know 
the  engraving,  which  is  very  faithful,  and  the  i'ace 
has,  I  think,  a  most  disagreeable  and  even  ordinary 
expression.  In  gazing  thus,  however,  at  the  two 
Venuses,  their  loveliness  inspires  a  feeling  of  piety; 


THE    FLORENCE    GALLERY.  47 

it  is  as  if  the  two  spirits  who  could  produce  such 
creations,  wore  flying  through  the  hall  and  grasping 
you  as  they  passed. 

Titian  must  have  been  a  marvellous  man,  and 
enjoyed  his  life  in  his  works;  still  the  fair  Medici 
is  not  to  be  slighted,  and  then  the  divine  Xiobe 
with  all  her  children  :  while  we  gaze  at  her.  \ve  can 
find  no  words.  I  have  not  yet  been  to  the  Pitti 
Palace,  which  possesses  the  Saint  Kzekiel.  and  the 
Madonna  della  Sedia,  of  Ilaphael.  I  saw  the  gar- 
dens of  the  palace  yesterday  in  sunshine;  they  are 
superb,  and  the  thick  solid  stems  of  the  myrtles 
and  laurels,  and  the  innumerable  cypresses,  made 
a  strange  exotic  impression  on  me;  but  when  I 
declare  that  I  consider  beeches,  limes,  oaks,  and 
firs,  ten  times  more  beautiful  and  picturesque,  I 
think  1  hear  llensel  exclaim,  "Oh,  the  northern 
bear  !  " 

October    3Cth. 

After  the  soft  rain  of  yesterday,  the  air  is  so  mild 
and  genial,  that  I  am  at  this  moment  seated  at  the 
open  window  writing  to  you;  and  indeed  it  is 
pleasant  enough  to  see  the  people  going  about  the 
streets,  offering  the  prettiest  baskets  of  flowers, 
fresh  violets,  roses,  and  pinks.  Two  days  ago. 
being  satiated  with  all  pictures,  statues,  vases,  and 
museums.  1  resolved  to  take  a  long  walk  till  sunset; 
so  after  buying  a  bunch  of  narcissuses  and  helio- 
tropes. I  went  up  the  hill  through  the  vineyards.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  delightful  walks  I  ever  remember; 


48  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTKRS. 

every  one  must  feel  revived  and  refreshed  at  the 
sight  of  nature  in  such  a  garb  as  this,  and  a  thous- 
and happy  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind. 

First  of  all,  I  went  to  a  villa  called  Bello 
Sguardo,  whence  the  whole  of  Florence  and  its  spa- 
cious valley  are  to  be  seen,  and  I  thoroughly  enjoyed 
the  view  of  the  superb  city  and  its  massive  towers 
and  palaces.  Bat  most  of  all  I  admired  the  count- 
less villas,  covering  every  hill  and  every  acclivity 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  as  if  the  city  extended 
beyond  the  mountains  into  the  far  distance.  And 
when  I  took  up  a  telescope  and  looked  down  on  the 
valley  through  the  blue  mists,  every  portion  of  it 
seemed  thickly  dotted  with  bright  objects  and  white 
villas,  while  such  a  large  circle  of  dwellings  inspired 
me  with  a  feeling  of  home  and  comfort. 

I  proceeded  far  over  the  hills  to  the  highest  point 
T  could  see,  on  which  stood  an  ancient  tower,  and 
when  I  reached  it  I  found  all  the  people  throughout 
the  building  busily  engaged  in  making  wine,  drying 
grapes,  and  repairing  casks.  It  proved  to  be 
Galileo's  tower,  from  which  he  used  to  make  his 
discoveries  and  observations;  from  here  also  there 
was  a  very  extensive  view,  and  the  girl  who  took 
me  to  the  roof  of  the  lower  related  a  number  of 
stories  in  her  peculiar  dialect,  which  I  scarcely 
understood  at  all  ;  but  she  afterwards  presented  me 
with  some  of  her  sweet  dried  grapes,  which  I  ate 
with  great  gusto.  And  so  I  went  on  to  another 
tower  I  saw  at  a  distance,  but  could  not  manage  to 
find  my  way;  and  examining  my  map  as  I  went 


GALILEO'S  TOWER.  49 

along,  I  stumbled  on  a  traveller  busily  searching 
his  map  also ;  the  only  difference  between  us  being, 
that  he  was  an  old  Frenchman  with  green  spectacles, 
who  addressed  me  thus,  "  K  questo  S.  Miniato  al 
Monte,  Signor?"  With  admirable  decision  I  re- 
plied, ''Si,  Signer;"  and  it  turned  out  that  I  was 

right.      A.    F immediately    recurred    to    my 

memory,  as  she  had  advised  me  to  see  this  monas- 
tery, which  is  indeed  wonderfully  fine. 

"When  I  tell  you  I  went  from  there  to  the  Boboli 
Gardens,  where  I  saw  the  sun  set,  and  at  night 
enjoyed  the  brightest  moonlight,  you  may  imagine 
how  much  I  was  invigorated  by  my  ramble.  I  will 
write  to  you  about  the  pictures  here  some  other 
time,  for  to-day  it  is  too  late,  as  I  have  still  to  take 
leave  of  the  Pitti  Palace  and  the  great  Gallery,  and 
to  gaze  once  more  at  my  Venus,  who  is  not  indeed 
mentioned  before  ladies,  but  whose  beauty  is  truly 
divine.  The  courier  goes  at  five  o'clock,  and  God 
willing.  I  shall  be  in  Home  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
From  thence  you  shall  hear  again. 

FELIX. 


Rome,  November  2nd,  1830. 

.  .  I  refrain  from  writing  longer  in  this  melan- 
choly strain  ;  for  just  as  your  letter,  after  a  lapse  of 
fourteen  days,  has  saddened  me.  my  answer  will 
have  the  same  effect  on  vou  fourteen  days  hence. 


50 

You  would  write  to  me  in  the  same  style,  and  so  it 
might  go  on  for  ever.  As  four  weeks  must  puss  be- 
fore I  can  receive  any  answer.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to 
restrict  myself  to  relating-  events  past  and  present, 
und  not  dwell  much  on  the  particular  frame  of  my 
mind  at  the  moment,  which  is  indeed  usually  suffi- 
ciently manifest  in  the  narrative  given,  and  the 
various  occurrences  described. 

I  have  scarcely  yet  arrived  at  the  conviction  that 
I  am  now  actually  in  Koine  ;  and  when  yesterday, 
just  as  day  was  breaking.  I  drove  across  a  bridge 
with  statues,  under  a  deep  blue  sky.  and  in  dax/cling 
white  moonlight,  and  the  courier  said,  "Ponte 
Molle,"  it  all  seemed  to  me  like  a  dream,  and  at  the 
same  moment  I  saw  before  me  my  sick-bed  in 
London  a  year  ago.  and  my  rough  Scotch  journey, 
and  Munich,  and  Vienna,  and  the  pines  on  these 
hills.  The  journey  from  Florcnc-c  to  Rome  has 
very  few  attractions.  Siena,  which  is.  I  understand 
worth  seeing,  we  passed  through  during  the  night. 
[t  was  unpleasant  to  see  a  regular  Government 
courier  compelled  to  take  a  military  escort,  which 
was  doubled  at  night;  still  it  must  be  absolutely 
necessary,  as  he  is  obliged  to  pay  for  it.  In  these 
days  this  ought  not  to  be  the  case.  In  the  mean- 
time  everything  progresses,  and  there  are  moments 
when  the  bound  forwards  is  actually  visible. 

J  was  still  in  Florence,  waiting  for  the  departure, 
of  the  post,  reading  a  French  newspaper,  when  at 
the  very  moment  the  bell  sounded,  1  read  among 
<,he  advertisements,  "Vie  de  Siebenkas,  par  dear 


GRAUX'S  "TCD  JESU."  51 

Paul."  Many  reflections  occurred  to  me  as  to  so 
many  men  of  renown  gradually  vanishing  from  our 
sight,  and  our  great  geniuses  having  such  homage 
paid  to  them  after  their  death,  and  yet  during  their 
life,  Lafontaine's  novels  and  French  vaudevilles 
alone  make  any  impression  on  their  fellow-country- 
men ;  while  we  only  strive  to  appreciate  the  very 
refuse  of  the  French,  and  neglect  Beaumarchais 
and  Rousseau.  However,  it  matters  little  after  all. 
The  first  thing  connected  with  music  that  I  met 
with  here,  was  the  "Tod  Jesu,"  by  Graun,  which 
an  Abbate  here,  Fortunato  Santini,  has  translated 
faithfully  and  admirably  into  Italian.  It  appears 
that  the  music  of  this  heretic  has  been  sent  along 
with  the  translation  to  Naples,  where  it  is  to  be 
produced  this  winter  at  a  great  festival,  and  I  hear 
that  the  musical  world  there  are  quite  enchanted 
with  it,  and  are  studying  the  work  with  infinite 
love  and  enthusiasm.  I  understand  that  the  Abbate 
has  been  long  impatiently  expecting  me,  because  he 
hopes  to  obtain  considerable  information  from  me 
about  German  music,  and  thinks  1  may  also  have 
t'ic  score  of  Bach's  "  Passion."  Thus  music  pro- 
gresses onwards,  as  sure  to  pierce  through  as  the 
sun  :  if  mists  still  prevail,  it  is  merely  a  sign  that 
the  spring-time  has  not  yet  come,  but  come  again 
it  must  and  will  !  Farewell  !  and  from  my  heart  I 
say, — May  a  merciful  Providence  preserve  you  all 
iu  health  and  happiness  ! 

FEUS. 


52  MENDELSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 

Rome,  November  Sth,  1830. 

T  must  now  write  to  you  of  my  first  week  in 
Home  ;  liiiw  ]  have  arranged  my  time,  lm\v  ]  look 
forward  to  the  winter,  and  what  impression  the 
glorious  objects  by  which  I  am  surrounded  have 


I  were  entirely  changed  since  I  came  here.  For- 
merly when  I  wished  to  check  my  haste  and 
impatience  to  press  forward,  and  to  continue  my 
journey  more  rapidly,  I  attributed  this  eagerness 
merely  to  the  force  of  habit,  but  I  am  now  fully 
persuaded  that  it  arose  entirely  from  my  anxiety  to 
reach  this  goal.  Now  that  1  have  at  last  attained 
it  my  mood  is  so  tranquil  and  joyous,  and  yet  su 
'arnest.  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  it  to 
von.  What  it  is  that  thus  works  on  me  1  cannot 
exactly  define  :  for  the  awo-inspirhijr  Coliseum,  and 
the  brilliant  Vatican,  and  the  Denial  air  of  spring, 
all  contribute  to  make  me  feel  thus,  and  so  do  the 
kindly  people,  my  comfortable  apartments,  and 
everything  else.  At  all  events  I  am  different  from 
what  I  was.  I  am  better  in  health  and  happier 
than  I  have  been  for  a  long  time,  and  take  delight 
in  my  work,  and  feel  such  an  inclination  for  it.  that 
]  expect  to  acei  mplisii  much  more  than  I  anticipa- 
ted: indeed.  1  have  already  done  a  good  deal.  If 
it  pleases  Providence  to  grant  me  a  continuation  of 
this  happy  mood.  1  look  forward  to  the  most  delight- 
ful and  product  ivo  winter. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  small  house,  with  two  win- 
dows iu  front,  in  the  Pia/./.a  di  .^pagna.  Xo.  3    which 


ARRIVAL   I>"    ROME.  53 

all  clay  long  enjoys  the  warm  sun.  and  an  apartment 
on  the  first  floor,  where  there  is  a  good  Viennese 
grand  piano:  on  the  table  are  some  portraits  of 
Palestrina,  Allegri,  etc.,  along  with  the  scores  of 
their  works,  and  a  Latin  psalm-book,  from  which  I 
am  to  compose  the  Nun  Nobi*  ; — such  is  my  present 
abode.  The  Capitol  was  too  far  away,  besides  I 
had  a  great  dread  of  the  cold  air,  which  here  I  have 
no  cause  to  guard  against;  for  when  I  look  out  of 
my  window  in  the  morning  across  the  square.  I  see 
every  object  sharply  defined  in  the  sunshine  against 
the  blue  sky.  My  landlord  was  formerly  a  captain 
in  the  French  army,  a. ml  his  daughter  has  the  most 
splendid  contralto  voice  I  ever  heard.  Above  me 
lives  a  Prussian  captain,  with  whom  I  talk  politics, 
— in  short,  the  situation  is  excellent. 

"When  I  come  into  the  room  early  in  the  morning, 
and  see  the  sun  shining  so  brightly  on  the  breakfast- 
table  (you  see  I  am  marred  as  a  poet).  1  feel  so 
cheerful  and  comfortable,  for  it  is  now  far  on  in  the 
autumn,  and  who  in  our  country  at  this  season  looks 
for  warmth,  or  a  bright  sky,  or  grapes  and  flowers  ? 
After  breakfast  I  begin  my  work,  and  play,  and 
sing,  and  compose  till  near  noon.  Then  Rome  in 
all  her  vast  dimensions  lies  before  me  like  an  inter- 
esting problem  to  enjoy:  but  I  go  deliberately  to 
work,  daily  selecting  some  different  object  apper- 
taining to  history.  One  day  I  visit  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  city;  another  1  go  to  the  Borghese  gallery, 
or  to  the  Capitol,  or  St.  Peter's,  or  the  Vatican. 
Ea;h  day  is  thus  made  memorable,  and  as  I  take 


54  MFADKLSSOTIN'S  T.KTTI'RS. 

my  time,  oacli  object  becomes  firmly  and  indelibly 
impressed  on  me.  When  I  am  occupied  in  the 
i'orenoon  I  am  willing1  to  leave  oil',  and  should  like 
to  continue  my  writing1,  but  1  say  to  myself  that  1 
must  see  the  Vatican,  and  when  I  am  actually  there, 
I  equally  dislike  leaving  it  ;  thus  each  of  my  occu- 
pations causes  me  the  most  genuine  pleasure,  and 
one  enjoyment  follows  another. 

Just  as  Venice,  with  her  past,  reminded  me  of  a 
vast  monument  :  her  crumbling1  modern  palaces, 
and  the  perpetual  remembrance  of  former  splen- 
dour, causing'  sad  and  discordant  sensations  ;  so 
does  the  past  of  Rome  suggest  the  impersonation 
of  history;  her  monuments  elevate  the  soul,  inspir- 
ing solemn  yet  serene  feelings,  and  it  is  a  thought 
fraught  with  exultation  that  man  is  capable  of 
producing  creations,  which,  after  the  lapse  of  a 
thousand  years,  still  renovate  and  animate  others. 
When  I  have  fairly  imprinted  an  object  like  thia 
on  my  mind,  and  each  day  a  fresh  one,  twilight  lias 
usually  arrived  and  the  day  is  over. 

I  then  visit  my  friends  and  acquaintances,  when 
we  mutually  communicate  what  each  has  done, 
which  means  enjoyed  here,  and  are  reciprocally 
pleased.  I  have  been  most  evenings  at  Bendemann's 
and  Hiibner's,  where  German  artists  usually  assem- 
ble, and  I  sometimes  go  to  Hchadow's.  The  Abbate 
Santini  is  a  valuable  acquaintance  for  me,  as  he 
has  a  very  complete  library  of  ancient  Italian 
music,  and  he  kindly  gives  or  lends  me  anything  1 
like,  for  no  one  can  be  more  obliging.  At  night  he 


SOCIETY    AT    RO.TtK.  55 

makes  either  Ahlborn  or  me  accompany  him  home, 
as  mi  Abbate  being'  seen  alone  at  night  in  the 
streets  would  bring-  him  into  evil  repute.  Thai 
such  youngsters  as  Ahlborn  and  I  should  act  as 
duennas  to  a  priest  of  sixty  is  diverting'  enough. 

The.  Duchess  of  gave  me  a  list  of  old  mu?''-j 

which  she  was  anxious  to  procure  copies  of  if  pos- 
sible. Santiiii's  collection  contains  all  this,  and  I  am 
much  obliged  to  him  for  havinir  furnished  me  with 
copies,  fur  I  am  now  looking  through  them  all,  and 
becoming'  acquainted  with  them.  I  beg  you  will 
send  me  for  him.  as  a  token  of  my  gratitude,  the  six 
cantatas  of  .Sebastian  IJach.  published  by  Marx  at 
.Simn.ck's.  or  some  of  his  pieces  fur  the  organ.  I 
should  lu  wever  prefer  the  cantatas:  he  already  lias 
the  "  .Magnificat  "  and  the  Mutets.  and  others.  He 
has  translated  the  "S.inget  dem  llerrn  ein  neues 
Lied."  and  intends  it  to  be  executed  at  Naples,  for 
which  he  deserves  a  reward.  I  am  writing  to  Zeltor 
ail  particulars  about  the  Papal  singers,  whom  I 
have  heard  three  times. — in  the  Quirinal,  in  the 
Monte  Cavallo.  and  once  in  San  Curio. 

1  look  forward  with  delight  to  seeing  I>unsen 
we  shall  have  much  to  discuss  together,  and  1  Lave 
likewise  an  idea  that  he  has  g'ot  some-  work  for  me  : 
if  I  can  conscientiously  undertake  it.  I  will  do  ?o 
gladly,  and  render  it  all  the  justice  in  mv  power. 
Among1  my  home  pleasures  1  include  that  of  reading 
torthe  first  time  (joethe's  Journey  to  Italy:  and  I 
must  avow  that  it  is  a  source  of  great  satisfaction 
to  me  to  find  that  he  arrived  in  Home  the  very 


56  MENDELSSOHN'S  I/KTTERS. 

same  day  that  I  did  ;  that  he  also  went  first  to  the 
Qnirinal,  and  heard  a  Requiem  there ;  that  he  waa 
seized  with  the  same  lit  of  impatience  in  Florence 
and  Bologna;  and  i'elt  the  same  tranquil,  or  as  he  calls 
it,  solid  spirit  here  :  indeed,  everything  that  he  de- 
scribes, I  exactly  experience  myself,  so  I  am  pleased. 
He  speaks  in  detail  of  a  large  picture  of  Titian's 
m  the  Vatican,  and  declares  that  its  meaning  is  not 
to  be  devised;  only  a  number  of  figures  standing 
beautifully  grouped  together.  I  fancy,  however, 
that  I  have  discovered  a  very  deep  sense  in  it,  and 
I  believe  that  whoever  finds  the  most  beauties  in 
Titian,  is  sure  to  be  most  in  the  right,  for  he  was  a 
glorious  man.  Though  he  has  not  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  and  diffusing  his  genius  here, 
as  Raphael  has  done  in  the  Vatican,  still  I  can 
never  forget  his  three  pictures  in  Venice,  and  to 
these  I  may  add  the  one  in  the  Vatican,  which  I 
saw  for  the  first  time  this  morning.  If  any  one 
could  come  into  the  world  with  full  consciousness', 
every  object  around  would  smile  on  him  with  the 
same  vivid  life  and  animation,  that  these  pictures  do 
on  us.  ''The  School  of  Athens,"  and  the  "THspula." 
and  the  '•  Peter,"  stand  before  us  precisely  as  they 
were  created  :  and  then  the  entrance  through  splen- 
did open  arches,  whence  you  can  see  the  Piazza  .if 
St.  Peter's,  and  Rome,  and  the  blue  Alban  hills  ;  and 
above  our  heads  figures  from  the  Old  Testament, 
and  a  thousand  bright  little  angels,  and  arabesques 
of  fruit,  and  garlands  of  flowers  ;  and  then  on  to 
the  gallery ! 


TITIAN    AND     RAPHAEL.  57 

You  may  well  bo  proud,  dear  Ilei  scl,  for  your 
copy  of  the  '•  Transfiguration "  is  superb !  The 
pleasing  emotion  which  seizes  mo,  when  I  see  for 
tin1  first  time  some  immortal  work,  and  the  per- 
vading idea  and  chief  impression  it  inspires,  I  did 
nut  experience  on  this  occasion  from  the  original, 
but  from  your  copy.  The  first  effect  of  this  picture 
to-day,  was  precisely  the  same  that  yours  had  pre- 
viously made  on  me ;  and  it  was  not  till  after 
considerable  research  and  contemplation  that  1 
succeeded  in  finding  out  anything  new  to  me.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Madonna  di  Foligno  dawned  on 
me  in  the  whole  splendour  of  her  loveliness.  I 
have  passed  a  happy  morning  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  glorious  works;  as  yet  I  have  not  visited  the 
statues,  but  have  reserved  my  first  impression  of 
them  for  another  day. 

November  9th,  morning. 

Thus  every  morning  brings  me  fresh  anticipa- 
tions, and  every  day  fulfils  them.  The  sun  is  again 
shining  on  my  breakfast-table  and  I  am  now  going 
to  my  daily  work.  I  will  send  you,  dear  Fanny,  by 
the  first  opportunity,  what  I  composed  in  Vienna, 
and  anything  else  that  may  be  finished,  and  my 
sketch-book  to  Rebecca;  but  I  am  far  from  being 
pleased  with  it  this  time,  so  I  intend  to  study  atten- 
tively the  sketches  of  the  landscape  painters  here, 
in  order  to  acquire  if  possible  a  new  manner.  I 
tried  to  produce  one  of  my  own,  but  it  would  not 
do! 


58  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

To-day  I  am  going  to  the  Lateran,  and  the  ruins 
of  ancient  Home;  and  in  the  evening  to  a  kind 
English  family,  whose  acquaintance  I  made  here. 
Pray  send  me  a  good  many  letters  of  introduction. 
I  am  exceedingly  anxious  to  know  numbers  of  peo- 
ple, especially  Italians.  So  I  live  on  happily,  and 
think  of  you  in  every  pleasant  moment.  May  you 
also  be  happy,  and  rejoice  with  me  at  the  prospect 
which  lies  before  me  here  ! 

FELIX  M.  B. 


Rome,  November  i6th,  1830. 
Dear  Fanny, 

No  post  left  this  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  I 
could  not  talk  to  you,  so  when  I  remembered  that 
my  letter  must  necessarily  remain  two  days  before 
it  left  Home,  I  felt  it  impossible  to  write  ;  but  I 
thought  of  you  times  without  number,  and  wished 
you  every  happiness,  and  congratulated  myself  that 
you  were  born  a  certain  number  of  years  ago.  It  is, 
indeed,  cheering  to  think  what  charming,  rational 
beings,  are  to  be  found  in  the  world  ;  and  you  are 
certainly  one  of  these.  Continue  cheerful,  bright, 
and  well,  and  make  no  great  change  in  yourself.  J 
don't  think  you  require  to  be  much  better ;  may 
good  fortune-  ever  abide  with  you  ! 

And  now  1  think  these  are  all  my  birthday  good 
wishes;  for  really  it  is  nut  fair  to  expect  that  a  man 
of  my  calibre  should  wish  you  also  a  fresh  stock  ot 


ROME.  59 

musical  ideas  ;  besides  you  are  very  unreasonable 
in  complaining  of  any  deficiency  in  that  respect, 
Per  Bu ecu!  if  you  had  the  inclination,  yon  certainly 
have  sufficient  genius  to  compose,  and  if  you  have 
no  desire  to  do  so,  why  grumble  so  much  ?  If  1  had 
a  baby  to  nurse,  I  certainly  should  not  write  any 
scores,  and  as  I  have  to  compose  Non  Nuliis,  I 
cannot  unluckily  carry  my  nephew  about  in  my 
arms.  15ut  TO  speak  seriously,  your  child  is  scarcely 
six  months  old  yet,  and  you  can  think  of  anything 
but  Sebastian  '!*  (not  Bach  !)  Be  thankful  that  you 
have  him.  Music  only  retreats  when  there  is  no 
longer  a  place  for  her.  and  I  am  not  surprised  that 
you  are  not  an  unnatural  mother.  However,  you 
have  my  best  wishes  on  your  birthday,  for  all  that 
your  heart  desires  ;  so  I  may  as  well  wish  you  half- 
a-dozen  melodies  into  the  bargain;  not  that  this 
will  be  of  much  use. 

In  Rome  here,  we  celebrated  the  14th  of  Novem- 
ber by  the  sky  shining,  in  blue  and  festive  array, 
and  breathing  on  us  warm  genial  air.  So  I  went  on 
pleasantly  towards  the  Capitol  and  into  church, 

where  I  heard  a  miserable  sermon  from ,  who 

is  no  doubt  a  very  good  man.  but  to  my  mind  has 
a  most  morose  style  of  preaching;  and  any  one 
who  could  irritate  me  on  ,s«c/i  a  day,  in  the.  Capitol, 
and  in  church,  must  have  an  especial  talent  for  so 
doing.  I  afterwards  went  to  call  on  Bunsen.  who 
had  just  arrived.  He  and  his  wife  received  me 


*  The  name  of  the  child. 


60  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

most  kindly,  and  we  conversed  on  much  that  was 
interesting,  including  politics  and  regrets  for  your 
absence.  Apropos,  my  favourite  work  that  I  am 
now  studying  is  Goethe's  'Lili's  Park,'  especially 
three  portions:  "  Kchr'  ich  mich  um,  und  brumin  :" 
then,  "  Kh  la  menotte  ;  "  and  best  of  all,  "  Die  ganze 
Luf't  ist  warm,  ist  bllithevoll,"  where  decidedly 
clarionets  must  be  introduced.  1  mean  to  make  it 
the  subject  of  a  scherzo  for  a  symphony. 

Yesterday,  at  dinner  at  Bunsen's,  we  had  among 
others  a  German  musician.  Oh,  heavens  !  I  wish  I 
were  a  Frenchman!  The  man  said  to  me,  "  Music 
must  be  handlc.d  everyday."  "Why?"  replied  1, 
which  rather  embarrassed  him.  lie  also  spoke  of 
earnest  purpose;  and  said  that  Spohr  had  no  earnest 
purpose,  but  that  he  had  distinctly  discerned  gleams 
of  an  earnest  purpose  in  my  Ta  cs  Petrus.  The 
fellow,  however,  has  a  small  property  at  Frascati, 
and  is  about  to  lay  do-wn  the  profession  of  music. 
We  have  not  got  so  far  as  that  yet ! 

After  dinner  came  Catel,  Kggers,  Scnf,  Wolf, 
then  a  painter,  and  then  two  more,  and  others.  I 
played  the  piano,  and  they  asked  for  pieces  by 
Sebastian  Bach,  so  I  played  numbers  of  his  compo- 
sitions, which  were  much  admired,  i  also  explained 
clearly  to  them  the  mode  in  which  the  "Passion"  is 
executed;  for  they  seemed  scarcely  to  believe  it. 
Bunsen  possesses  it,  arranged  for  the  piano;  he 
showed  it  to  the  Papal  singers,  and  they  said  before 
witnesses,  that  such  music  could  not  possibly  be 
executed  by  human  voices.  1  think  the  contrary. 


It  seems,  however,  that  Trautwein  is  about  to  pub- 
lish the  score  of  the  Passion  of  .St.  John.  I  suppose 
I  must  order  a  set  of  studs  for  Paris,  a  la  Back. 

To-day  Bunsen  is  to  take  me  to  Baini's.  whom  he 
has  not  seen  for  a  year,  as  he  never  goes  out  except 
to  hear  confessions.  1  am  glad  to  know  him,  and 
shall  endeavour  to  improve  my  intimacy  with  him, 
fur  he  can  solve  many  an  enigma  for  me.  Old 
Sajitini  continues  as  kind  as  ever.  When  we  are 
together  in  society,  if  I  praise  any  particular  piece 
or  am  not  acquainted  with  it.  next  morning  he  is 
sure  to  knock  gently  at  my  door,  and  to  bring  me 
the  piece  in  question  carefully  wrapped  up  in  a 
blue  pocket-handkerchief;  I,  in  return,  accompany 
him  home  every  evening;  and  we  have  a  great 
r-irard  for  each  other.  He  also  brought  me  his  Te 
I)  -urn.  written  in  eight  parts,  requesting  me  to 
:orrect  some  of  the  modulations,  as  G  major  pre- 
dominates too  much  ;  so  I  mean  to  try  if  1  cannot 
introduce  some  A  minor  or  E  minor. 

I  am  now  very  anxious  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  good  many  Italians.  I  visit  at  the  house  of 
a  certain  Maestro  di  .San  Giovanni  Laterano,  whose 
daughters  are  musical,  but  not  pretty,  so  this  does 
not  count  for  much.  If  therefore  you  can  send  me 
letters,  pray  do  so.  I  work  in  the  morning;  at  noon 
I  see  and  admire,  and  thus  the  day  glides  away  till 
sunset  ;  but  1  should  like  in  the  evening  to  associ- 
ate with  the  Roman  world.  My  kind  English 
frier  ds  have  arrived  from  Venice  ;  Lord  Ilarrowby 
and  his  family  are  to  pass  the  winter  here, 
6 


62  MENDELSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 

Schadow,  Bendeman,  Bunscn,  Tippclskirch,  all  re- 
ceive every  evening  ;  in  short  I  have  no  lack  of 
acquaintances,  but  I  should  like  to  know  some 
Italians  also. 

The  present,  dear  Fanny,  that  I  have  prepared 
for  your  birthday,  is  a  psalm,  for  chorus  and  or- 
chestra. Non  nob  is,  Domine.  You  know  the  mel- 
ody well  ;  there  is  an  air  in  it  which  has  a  good 
ending,  and  the  last  chorus  will  I  hope  please  you. 
I  hear  that  next  week  1  shall  have  an  opportunity 
of  sending  it  to  you,  along  with  a  quantity  of  new 
music.  I  intend  now  to  finish  my  overture,  and 
then  (D.V.)  to  proceed  with  my  symphony.  A 
pianoforte  concerto,  too,  that  I  wish  to  write  for 
Paris,  begins  to  float  in  my  head.  If  Providence 
kindly  bestows  on  me  success  and  bright  days,  I 
hope  we  shall  enjoy  them  together.  Farewell  ! 
May  you  be  happy  ! 

FELIX 


Rome,  November  22nd,  1830. 
My  dear  Brother  and  Sisters. 

You  know  how  much  I  dislike,  at  a  distance  of 
two  hundred  miles,  and  fourteen  days'  journey  from 
yon,  to  oiler  good  advice.  I  mean  to  do  so.  how- 
ever, for  once.  Let  me  tell  you  therefore  of  u 
mistake  in  your  conduct,  and  in  truth  the  same  that 
I  once  made  myself.  I  do  assure  you  that  never  iu 
my  life  have  I  known  my  father  write  in  so  irritable 


ROME.  63 

a  strain  as  since  I  came  to  Rome,  and  so  I  wish  to 
ask  you  if  you  cannot  devise  some  domestic  recipe 
to  rhecr  him  a  little?  I  mean  by  forbearance  and 
yielding  to  his  wishes,  and  in  this  manner,  by  allow- 
i:i'j'  my  lather's  view  of  any  subject  to  predominate 
ever  yuur  n\vn  :  then,  not  to  speak  at  all  on  topics 
that  irritate  him  ;  and  instead  of  saying  shameful, 
say  unpleasant  ;  or  instead  of  superb,  very  fair. 
This  method  has  often  a  wonderfully  good  effect; 
and  1  put  it,  with  all  submission  to  yourselves, 
whether  it  might  nut  be  equally  successful  in  this 
case?  For,  with  the  exception  of  the  great  events 
of  the  world,  ill-humour  often  seems  to  me  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  same  cause  that  my  father's  did  when 
I  chose  to  pursue  my  own  path  in  my  musical 
studies.  He  was  then  in  a  constant  state  of  irrita- 
tion, incessantly  abusing  Beethoven  and  all  vision- 
aries ;  and  this  often  vexed  me  very  much,  and 
made  me  sometimes  very  unamiable.  At  that  very 
time  something  new  came  out,  which  put  my  father 
out  of  sorts,  and  made  him  I  believe  not  a  little 
uneasy.  So  long  therefore  as  I  persisted  in  ex- 
tolling and  exalting  my  Beethoven,  the  evil 
became  daily  worse  ;  and  one  day,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  I  was  even  sent  out  of  the  room.  At  last,  how- 
ever, it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  speak  a  great 
deal  of  truth,  and  yet  avoid  the  particular  truth 
obnoxious  to  my  father;  so  the  aspect  of  affairs 
speedily  began  to  improve,  and  soon  all  went  well. 

Perhaps  you  may  have  in  some  degree  forgotten 
that  you  ought  now  and  then  to  be  forbearing,  and 


64 

not  aggressive.  My  father  considers  himself  both 
much  older  and  more  irritable  than,  thank  God.  he 
really  is;  but  it  is  our  duty  always  to  submit  our 
opinion  to  his.  even  if  the  truth  be  as  much  on  our 
side,  as  it  often  is  on  his,  when  opposed  to  us. 
Strive,  then,  to  praise  what  he  likes,  and  do  not 
attack  what  is  implanted  in  his  heart,  more  es- 
pecially ancient  established  ideas.  Do  not  commend 
what  is  new  till  it,  has  made  some  progress  in  the 
world,  and  acquired  a  name,  for  till  then  it  is  a 
mere  matter  of  taste.  Try  to  draw  my  father  into 
your  circle,  and  be  playful  and  kind  to  him.  lu 
short,  try  to  smooth  and  to  equalixe  things;  and  re- 
member that  I,  who  am  now  an  experienced  man  of 
the  world,  never  yet  knew  any  family,  taking  into 
due  consideration  all  defects  and  failings,  who  have 
hitherto  lived  so  happily  together  as  ours. 

J)o  not  send  me  any  answer  to  this,  for  you  will 
not  receive  it  for  a  month,  and  by  that  time  no 
doubt  some  fresh  topic  will  have  arisen ;  besides,  if 
I  have  spoken  nonsense,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  scolded 
by  you  ;  and  if  I  have  spoken  properly,  I  hope  you 
will  follow  my  good  advice. 

November  23rd. 

Just  as  I  was  going  to  set  to  work  at  the  "  Hebri- 
des," arrived  ITerr  15 ,  a  musical  professor  from 

Magdeburg.  He  played  me  over  a  whole  book  of 
songs,  and  an  Avc  Maria,  and  begged  to  have  the 
benefit  of  my  opinion.  I  seemed  in  the  position  of 
a  juvenile  Nestor,  and  made  him  some  insipid 


"  THE    HEBRIDES."  65 

speeches,  but  this  caused  me  the  loss  of  a  morning 
in  Home,  which  is  a  pity.  The  Choral,  "  Mitten  wir 
im  Leben  sintl,"  is  iinished,  and  is  certainly  one  of 
the  best  sacred  pieces  that  I  have  yet  composed. 
A_i'ter  I  have  completed  the  Hebrides,  1  think  of 
arranging  Handel's  Solomon  for  future  performance, 
wuh  proper  curtailments,  etc.  I  then  purpose 
writing  the  Christmas  music  of  "Torn  Himmel 
hocli,"  and  the  symphony  in  A  minor ;  perhaps  also 
some  pieces  for  the  piano,  and  a  concerto,  etc.,  just 
as  they  come  into  my  head. 

1  own  1  do  sadly  miss  some  friend  to  whom  I  could 
communicate  my  new  works,  and  who  could  examine 
the  score  along  with  me.  and  play  a  bass  or  a  flute  ; 
whereas  now  when  a  piece  is  finished  I  must  lay  it 
aside  in  my  de.>k  without  its  giving  pleasure  to  any 
one.  London  spoiled  me  in  this  respect.  I  can 
never  again  expect  to  meet  all  together  such  friends 
as  I  Lad  there.  Here  1  can  only  say  the  half  of 
what  I  think,  and  leave  the  best  half  unspoken; 
whereas  there  it  was  not  necessary  to  say  more  than 
the  half,  because  the  other  half  was  a  mere  matter 
of  coarse,  and  already  understood.  Still,  this  is  a 
most  delightful  place. 

Yfe  young  people  went  lately  to  Albano,  and  set 
off  in  tin1  most  lovely  weather.  The  road  to  Fras- 
cati  passed  under  the  great  aqueduct,  its  dark  brown 
outlines  standing  out  sharply  defined  against  the 
clear  blue  sky  ;  thence  we  proceeded  to  the  monas- 
tery at  (Jrotta  Ferrata,  where  there  are  some  beauti- 
ful frescoes  by  Domenichino ;  then  to  Marino,  very 
6* 


66  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

picturesquely  situated  on  a  hill,  an  1  proceeding 
along  the  margin  of  the  lake  we  reached  (..'astel  Gan- 
dolfo.  The  scenery,  like  my  first  impression  of  Italy. 
is  by  no  means  so  striking  or  so  wonderfully  beauti- 
ful as  is  generally  supposed,  but  most  pleasing  ana 
gratifying  to  the  eye,  and  the  outlines  undulating 
and  picturesque,  forming  a  perfect  whole,  with  its 
entourage  and  distribution  of  light. 

Here  1  must  deliver  a  eulogy  on  monks;  they 
finish  a  picture  at  once,  giving  it  tone  and  colour, 
with  their  wide  loose  gowns,  their  pious  meditative 
gait,  and  their  dark  aspect.  A  beautiful  shadj 
avenue  of  evergreen  oaks  runs  along  the  lake  froih 
Castel  Gandolfo  to  Albano,  where  monks  of  ever; 
order  are  swarming,  animating  the  scenery  and  yei 
marking  its  solitude.  Near  the  city  a  couple  ol 
begging  monks  were  walking  together ;  further  on,  ^ 
whole  troop  of  young  Jesuits ;  then  we  saw  an  ele- 
gant young  priest  in  a  thicket  reading ;  beyond  this 
two  more  were  standing  in  the  wood  with  their  guns, 
watching  for  birds.  Then  we  cam'e  to  a  monastery, 
encircled  by  a  number  of  small  chapels.  At  last  all 
was  solitude ;  but  at  that  moment  appeared  a  dirty, 
stupid-looking  Capuchin,  laden  with  huge  nosegays, 
which  he  placed  before  the  various  shrines,  kneeling 
down  in  front  of  them  before  proceeding  to  decorate 
them. 

As  we  passed  on,  we  met  two  old  prelates  engaged 
in  eager  conversation.  The  bell  for  vespers  was 
ringing  in  the  monastery  of  Albano,  and  even  on 
the  summit  of  the  highest  hill  stands  a  Passionist 


MONASTERY    OF    AI.BAXO.  67 

convent,  where  they  are  only  permitted  to  speak  for 
a  single  hour  daily,  and  occupy  themselves  solely  in 
reading  the  history  of  the  passion  of  Christ.  In 
Albano.  among  girls  with  pitchers  on  their  heads, 
vndors  of  flowers  and  vegetables,  and  all  the  crowd 
and  tumult,  we  saw  a  coal-bla^k  dumb  monk,  return- 
ing 1o  Monte  Cavo,  who  formed  a  singular  contrast 
to  the  rest  of  the  scene.  They  seem  to  have  taken 
entire  possession  of  all  this  splendid  country,  and 
form  a  strange  melancholy  ground-tone  for  all  that 
is  lively,  gay,  and  free,  and  the  ever-living  cheerful- 
ness bestowed  by  nature.  It  is  as  if  men,  on  that 
very  account,  required  a  counterpoise.  This  is  not 
however  my  case,  and  I  need  no  contrast  to  enable 
me  to  enjoy  what  I  see. 

I  am  often  with  Bunsen,  and  as  he  likes  to  turn 
the  conversation  on  the  subject  of  his  Liturgy  and 
its  musical  portions,  which  I  consider  very  deficient, 
I  am  perfectly  plain-spoken,  and  give  him  a  straight- 
forward opinion ;  and  I  believe  this  is  the  only  way 
to  establish  a  mutual  understanding.  We  have  had 
several  long,  serious  discussions,  and  I  hope  we 
shall  eventually  know  each  other  better.  Yesterday 
Palest rina's  music  was  performed  at  Bunsen's  house 
(as  on  every  Monday),  and  then  for  the  first  time  I 
played  before  the  Roman  musicians  in  corporc.  I 
am  quite  aware  of  the  necessity  in  every  foreign  city 
of  playing  so  as  to  make  myself  understood  by  the 
audience.  This  makes  me  usually  feel  rather  em- 
barrassed, and  such  was  the  case  with  me  yesterday. 
After  the  Papal  singers  finished  Palestrina's  music, 


68  MEXDELSSOHX'S    LETTKRS. 

it  was  mv  turn  to  play  something.  A  brilliant  piece 
would  have  been  unsuitable,  and  there  had  been 
more  than  enough  of  serious  music ;  I  therefore 
oegged  Astolfi,  the  Director,  to  give  me  a  theme,  so 
lie  lightly  touched  the  notes  with  one  finger  thus : — 


smiling  as  he  did  so.  The  black-frocked  Abbati 
pressed  round  me  and  seemed  highly  delighted.  I 
observed  this,  and  it  inspirited  me  so  much  that 
towards  the  end  I  succeeded  famously;  they  clapped 
their  hands  like  mad.  and  Bunsen  declared  that  I 
had  astounded  the  clergy  ;  in  short,  the  affair  went 
off  well.  There  is  no  encouraging  prospect  of  any 
public  performance  here,  so  society  is  the  only  re- 
source, which  is  fishing  in  troubled  waters. 

Yours,  FELIX 


Rome,  November  3Cth,  1830. 

To  come  home  from  Bunsen's  by  moonlight,  with 
your  letter  in  my  pocket,  and  then  to  read  it  through 
leisurely  at  night. — this  is  a  degree  of  pleasure  I 
wish  many  may  enjoy.  In  all  probability  I  shall  stay 
here  the  whole  winter,  and  not  go  to  Naples  till 
April.  It  is  so  delightful  to  look  round  on  every 
side,  and  to  appreciate  it  all  properly.  There  is 


THE    POPE.  69 

much  that  must  be  thought  over,  in  order  to  receive 
a  clue  impression  from  it.  I  have  also  within  my- 
self so  much  work  requiring  both  quiet  and  industry, 
that  I  feel  anything  like  haste  would  be  utter  des- 
truction ;  and  though  I  adhere  faithfully  to  my 
system,  to  receive  each  day  only  one  fresh  image 
into  my  mind,  still  I  am  sometimes  compelled  even 
then  to  give  myself  a  day  of  rest,  that  1  may  not 
become  confused.  I  write  you  a  short  letter  to-day, 
because  1  must  for  the  present  adhere  to  my  work  ; 
and  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  culling  all  the  beauty 
that  lies  at  my  feet.  The  weather,  too,  is  briitto 
and  cold,  so  that  I  am  not  in  a  very  communicative 
mood.  The  Pope  is  dying,  or  possibly  dead  by  this 
time.  "We  shall  soon  get  a  new  one,"  say  the 
Italians,  coolly.  His  death  will  not  affect  the  Car- 
nival, nor  the  church  festivals,  Avith  their  pomps 
and  processions,  and  fine  music  ;  and  as  there  will 
be  in  addition  to  these,  solemn  requiems,  and  the 
lying-in-state  at  St.  Peter's,  they  care  little  about  it, 
provided  it  does  not  occur  in  February. 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  that  Mantius  sings  my 
songs,  and  likes  them.  Give  him  my  kind  regards, 
and  ask  him  why  he  does  not  perform  his  promise, 
and  write  to  me.  I  have  written  to  him  repeatedly 
in  the  shape  of  music.  In  the  "Ave  Maria,"  and  in 
the  choral  ''Atis  tiefer  Noth,"  some  passages  are 
composed  expressly  for  him,  and  he  will  sing  them 
charmingly.  In  the  "Ave,':  which  is  a  salutation, 
a  tenor  solo  takes  the  lead  of  the  choir  ( I  thought 
of  a  disciple  all  the  time).  As  the  piece  is  in  A 


10  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

major,  and  goes  rather  high  at  the  words  Hcne- 
•Jicla  in.  lie  must  prepare  his  high  A;  it  will  vibrate 
well.  Ask  him  to  sing  you  a  song  I  sent  to  Devrient 
from  Venice,  ''Von  schlcchtem  Lebenswandel." 
It  is  expressive  of  mingled  joy  and  despair  ;  no 
doubt  he  will  sing  it  well.  .Show  it  to  no  one,  but 
confine  it  solely  to  forty  eyes.  Ilitz*  too  nevei 
writes,  and  yet  I  am  constantly  longing  for  his  vio- 
lin and  his  depth  of  feeling  when  he  plays,  which 
till  recurs  to  my  mind  when  I  see  his  welcome  wri- 
ting. I  am  now  working  daily  at  the  "  Hebrides," 
and  will  send  it  to  Ilitz  as  soon  as  it  is  finished.  It 
is  quite  a  piece  to  suit  him — so  very  singular. 

Next  time  I  write  I  will  tell  you  more  of  myself. 
I  work  hard,  and  lead  a  pleasant,  happy  life  ;  my 
mirror  is  stuck  full  of  Italian,  German,  and  English 
visiting-cards,  and  I  spend  every  evening  with  one 
of  my  acquaintances.  There  is  a  truly  Babylonian 
confusion  of  tongues  in  my  head,  for  English, 
Italian,  German  and  French  are  all  mixed  up  to 
get  her  in  it.  Two  days  ago  I  again  extemporized 
before  the  Papal  singers.  The  fellows  had  con- 
trived to  get  hold  of  the  most  strange,  quaint 
theme  for  me,  wishing  to  put  my  powers  to  the  test. 
They  call  me,  however,  I'insuperabile  professorone, 
and  are  particularly  kind  and  friendly.  I  much 
wished  to  have  described  to  you  the  Sunday  music  in 
the  Sistina,  a  soiree  at  Torlonia's,  the  Vatican,  St. 


*  The  violin  player,  Edward  Kitz,  an  intimate  friend  of  Men- 
deUsolm  s. 


SOCIETY    IN    ROME.  il 

Onofrio,  Guide's  Aurora,  and  other  small  matters, 
but  I  reserve  them   for  my  next  letter.     The  post 
is   about   to  set  off,  and  this  letter  with   it.     My 
good  wishes  are  always  with  you,  to-day  and  ever. 
Yours, 

FELIX. 


Rome,  December  yth,  1830. 

I  cannot  even  to-day  manage  to  write  to  you  as 
fully  as  I  wish.  Heaven  knows  how  time  flies  here  ! 
I  was  introduced  this  week  to  several  agreeable 
English  families,  and  so  I  have  the  prospect  of  many 
pleasant  evenings  this  winter.  I  am  much  with 
Uiinsen.  I  intend  also  to  cultivate  Baini.  1  think 
he  conceives  me  to  be  only  a  brutix^i'ino  Tedesco,  so 
that  1  have  a  famous  opportunity  of  becoming  well 
acquainted  with  him.  ]  1  is  compositions  are  certainly 
of  no  great  value,  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the 
whole  music  here.  The  wish  is  not  wanting,  but  the 
means  do  not  exist.  The  orchestra  is  below  con- 
tempt. Mdlle.  Carl.*  (who  is  engaged  as  prima 
tluima  axs<'/ln(a  for  tire  season,  at  both  the  principal 
theatres  here.)  is  now  arrived,  and  begins  to  make 
la  pluie  ct  l<f  bean  temps.  The  Papal  singers  even 
are  becoming  old;  they  are  almost  all  unmusical, 
and  do  not  execute  even  the  most  established  pieces 
iu  tune.  The  whole  choir  consists  of  thirtv-two 


72  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

singers,  but  that  number  are  rarely  together.  Con- 
certs are  given  by  the  so-called  Philharmonic  Society, 
but  only  with  the  piano.  There  is  no  orchestra,  and 
•when  recently  they  wished  to  perform  Haydn's 
"Creation,"  the  instrumentalists  declared  it  was 
impossible  to  play  it.  The  sounds  they  bring  out  of 
their  wind  instruments,  are  such  as  in  Germany  we 
have  no  conception  of. 

The  Pope  is  dead,  and  the  Conclave  assembles  on 
the  14th.  A  great  part  of  the  winter  will  be  occu- 
pied with  the  ceremonies  of  his  funeral,  and  the  en- 
thronement of  the  new  Pope.  All  music  therefore 
and  large  parties  must  be  at  an  end,  so  I  very  much 
doubt  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  undertake  any  pub- 
lic performance  during  my  stay  here ;  but  I  do  not 
regret  this,  for  there  are  so  many  varied  objects  to 
enjoy  inwardly,  that  my  dwelling  on  these  and  medi- 
tating on  them  is  no  disadvantage.  The  performance 
of  Graun's  "  Passion"  in  Naples,  and  more  especially 
the  translation  of  Sebastian  Bach's,  prove  that  the 
good  cause  is  sure  eventually  to  niake  its  way, 
though  it  will  neither  kindle  enthusiasm,  nor  will  it 
be  appreciated.  It  is  no  worse  however  with  regard 
to  music — in  fact,  rather  better — than  with  their 
estimate  of  every  other  branch  of  the  fine  arts;  for 
when  some  of  Kaphael's  Loggie  arc  with  inconceiv- 
able recklessness  and  disgraceful  barbarism  actually 
defaced,  to  give  place  to  inscriptions  in  pencil ;  when 
the  lower  parts  of  the  arabesques  are  totally  de- 
stroyed, because  Italians  with  knives,  and  1 1  en  veil 
knows  what  else  besides,  inscribe  their  insignificant 


THE    ARTS    AT    ROME.  73 

names  there ;  when  one  person  painted  in  large 
letters  under  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  '  Christ ;'  when 
an  altar  has  been  erected  in  front  of  Michael  An- 
gelo's  ''Last  Judgment,"  so  large  that  it  hides  the 
centre  of  the  picture,  thus  destroying  the  whole 
effect;  when  cattle  are  driven  through  the  splendid 
saloons  of  the  Villa  Madama,  the  walls  of  which  aro 
painted  by  Giulio  llomano,  and  fodder  is  stored  in 
them,  simply  from  indifference  towards  the  beautiful, 
—all  this  is  certainly  much  worse  than  a  bad  or- 
chestra, and  painters  must  be  even  more  distressed 
by  such  things  than  I  am  by  their  miserable  music. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  people  are  mentally  ener- 
vated and  apathetic.  They  have  a  religion,  but 
they  do  not  believe  in  it;  they  have  a  Pope  and  a 
Government,  but  they  turn  them  into  ridicule;  they 
can  recall  a  brilliant  and  heroic  past,  but  they  do 
not  value  it.  It  is  thus  no  marvel  that  they  do  not 
delight  in  Art,  for  they  are  indifferent  to  all  that  is 
earnest,  it  is  realiy  quite  revolting  to  see  their 
unconcern  about  the  death  of  the  Pope,  and  then 
unseemly  merriment  during  the  ceremonies.  I  my- 
self saw  the  corpse  lying  in  state,  and  the  priests 
standing  round  incessantly  whispering  and  laugh- 
ing; and  at  this  moment,  when  masses  are  being 
said  fur  his  soul,  they  are  in  the  very  same  church 
hammering  away  at  the  scaffolding  of  the  catafalque, 
so  that  the  strokes  of  the  hammers  and  the  noise  of 
the  workpeople  entirely  prevent  any  one  hearing 
the  religious  services.  As  soon  as  the  Cardinals 
assemble  in  conclave,  satires  appear  against  them, 


74  MEXUELSSOIIX'S    LETTERS. 

where,  for  instance,  they  parody  the  Litanies,  and  in- 
stead of  praying  to  be  delivered  from  each  particular 
sin,  they  name  the  bad  qualities  of  each  well-known 
cardinal ;  or.  again,  they  perform  an  entire  opera, 
where  all  the  characters  are  Cardinals,  one  being 
the  primo  amoroso,  another  the  tiraniw  annul uto,  a 
third,  stage  candle-snuffer,  etc.  This  could  not  be 
the  case  where  the  people  took  any  pleasure  in  Art. 
Formerly  it  was  no  better,  but  they  had  faith  then ; 
and  it  is  this  which  makes  the  difference.  Nature, 
however,  and  the  genial  December  atmosphere,  and 
the  outlines  of  the  Alban  hills,  stretching  as  far  as 
the  sea,  all  remain  unchanged.  There  they  can 
scribble  no  names,  or  compose  no  inscriptions. 
These  every  one  can  still  individually  enjoy  in  all 
their  freshness,  and  to  these  I  cling.  I  feel  much 
the  want  of  a  friend  here,  to  whom  I  could  freely 
unbosom  myself;  who  could  read  my  music  as  I 
write  it,  thus  making  it  doubly  precious  in  my 
eyes  ;  in  whose  society  I  could  feel  an  interest,  and 
enjoy  repose;  and  honestly  learn  from  him,  (it  would 
not  require  a  very  wise  man  for  this  purpose.)  But 
just  as  trees  are  not  ordained  to  grow  up  into  the 
sky,  so  probably  such  a  man  is  not  likely  to  be 
found  here  ;  and  the  good  fortune  I  have  hitherto 
so  richly  enjoyed  elsewhere,  is  not  to  fall  to  my 
share  at  present ;  so  I  must  hum  over  my  melodies 
to  myself,  and  1  dare  say  1  shall  do  well  enough. 

FELIX. 


OVERTURE    TO    "THE    HEBRIDES."  75 

Rome,  December  loth,  1830. 
Dear  Father, 

It  is  a  year  this  very  day  since  we  kept  your 
birthday  at  Heiisel's,  and  now  let  me  give  you  some 
account  of  Rome,  as  I  did  at  that  lime  of  London. 
I  intend  to  finish  my  Overture  to  the  "  Einsame 
Tnsel  "*  as  a  present  to  you,  and  if  I  write  under  it 
the  llth  December,  when  I  take  up  the  sheets  I 
shall  feel  as  if  I  were  about  to  place  them  in  your 
hands.  You  would  probably  say  that  you  could  not 
read  them,  but  still  I  should  have  offered  you  the 
bust  it  was  in  my  power  to  give ;  and  though  I 
desire  to  do  this  every  day.  still  there  is  a  peculiar 
feeling  connected  with  a  birthday.  "Would  I  were 
with  you  !  I  need  not  offer  you  my  good  wishes, 
for  you  know  them  all  already,  and  the  deep  interest 
I.  and  all  of  UP.  take  in  your  happiness  and  welfare, 
and  that  we  cannot  wish  any  good  for  you.  that  is 
not  reflected  doubly  on  ourselves.  To-day  is  a  holi- 
day. I  rejoice  in  thinking  how  cheerful  you  are  at 
home;  and  when  I  repeat  to  you  how  happily  I 
live  here.  I  feel  as  if  this  were  also  a  felicitation. 
A  period  like  this,  when  serious  thought  and  enjoy- 
ment are  combined,  is  indeed  most  cheering  and 
invigorating.  Every  time  I  enter  my  room  I  rejoice 
that  1  am  not  obliged  to  pursue  my  journey  on  the 
following  day.  and  that  I  may  quietly  postpone 
many  thinirs  till  the  morrow — that  I  am  in  Hume! 


*  Afterwards  published   under   the   ruime   of   "Overture  to  the 
Hebrides.1' 


76  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

HitliCi  to  much  that  passed  through  my  brain  waa 
swept  away  by  fresh  ideas,  each  new  impression 
chasing'  away  the  previous  one,  while  here,  on  the 
contrary,  they  are  all  in  turn  properly  developed. 
I  never  remember  having  worked  with  so  much  zeal, 
and  it'  I  am  to  complete  all  that  I  have  projected,  I 
must  be  very  industrious  during  the  winter.  I  am 
indeed  deprived  of  the  great  delight  of  showing  my 
finished  compositions  to  one  who  could  take  pleas- 
ure in  them,  and  enter  into  them  along  with  me  ; 
but  this  impels  me  to  return  to  my  labours,  which 
please  me  most  when  I  am  fairly  in  the  midst  of 
them.  And  now  this  must  be  combined  with  the 
various  solemnities,  and  festivals  of  every  kind, 
•which  are  to  supplant  my  work  for  a  few  days  ;  and 
as  1  have  resolved  to  see  and  to  enjoy  all  I  possibly 
can,  I  do  not  allow  my  occupation  to  prevent  this, 
and  shall  then  return  with  fresh  zeal  to  my  com- 
position. 

This  is  indeed  a  delightful  existence!  My  health 
is  as  good  as  possible,  though  the  hot  wind,  called 
here  the  sirocco,  rather  attacks  my  nerves,  and  I 
find  I  must  beware  of  playing  the  piano  much,  or 
at  night ;  besides  it  is  easy  for  me  to  refrain  from 
doing  so  for  a  few  days,  as  for  some  weeks  past  I 
have  been  playing  almost  every  evening.  Bunsen, 
who  often  warns  me  against  playing  if  I  find  it  pre- 
judicial, gave  a  large  party  yesterday,  where  never- 
theless I  was  obliged  to  play;  but  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  me,  for  I  had  the  opportunity  of  making  so  many 
agreeable  acquaintances.  Thorwaldsen,  in  particu- 


THOF.WAI.nSKX.  77 

lar,  expressed  himself  in  so  gratifying  a  manner 
with  regard  to  me,  that  I  felt  quite  proud,  for  I 
honor  him  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  men,  and 
always  have  revered  him.  He  looks  like  a  lion, 
and  the  very  sight  of  his  face  is  invigorating.  You 
feel  at  once  that  he  must  be  a  noble  artist  ;  his 
oyes  look  so  clear,  as  if  with  him  every  object  must 
assume  a  definite  form  and  image.  Moreover  he  is 
very  gentle,  and  kind,  and  mild,  because  his  nature 
is  so  superior;  and  yet  he  seems  to  be  able  to  enjoy 
every  trifle.  It  is  a  real  source  of  pleasure  to  see 
a  great  man.  and  to  know  that  the  creator  of  works 
that  will  endure  for  ever  stands  before  you  in  per- 
son :  a  living  being  with  all  his  attributes,  and 
individuality,  and  genius,  and  yet  a  man  like  others. 

December  lith,  morning. 

Now  your  actual  birthday  is  arrived !  A  few 
lines  of  music  suggested  themselves  to  me  on  the 
occasion,  and  though  they  may  not  be  worth  much, 
the  congratulations  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  offer- 
ing, were  of  quite  as  little  value.  Fanny  may  add 
the  second  part.  J  have  only  written  what  occurred 
to  my  mind  as  I  entered  the  room,  the  sun  shining, 
on  our  birthda  : — 


MENDELSSOHN  S    LETTERS. 

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80  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Bunscn  has  just  been  here,  and  hogs  me  to  ?ond 
you  his  best  regards  and  congratulations.  He  is  all 
kindness  and  courtesy  towards  me,  and  as  you  wish 
to  know,  I  think  I.  may  say  that  we  suit  each  other 
remarkably  well.  The  few  words  you  wrote  about 

P recalled  him  to  my  memory  in  all  his  offen- 

siveness.  The  Abbatc  Santini  ought  to  be  an 
obscure  man  compared  with  him,  for  he  never 
attempts  to  magnify  his  own  importance  by  imper- 
tinence or  self-sufficiency.  P is  one  of  those 

collectors  who  make  learning  and  libraries  distaste- 
ful 1o  others  by  their  narrow-mindedness,  whereas 
Bantini  is  a  genuine  collector,  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word,  caring  lillle  whether  his  collection  be  of 
much  value  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view.  lie  there- 
fore gives  everything  away  indiscriminately,  and  is 
only  anxious  to  procure  something  new,  for  his  chief 
object  is  the  diffusion  and  universal  knowledge  of 
ancient  music.  I  have  not  seen  him  lately,  as  every 
morning  now  he  figures.  (X  offic/o,  in  his  violet  gown 
nt  St.  Peter's;  but  if  he  has  made  use  of  some  an- 
cient text,  he  will  say  so  without  scruple,  as  he  has 
no  wish  to  be  thought  the  first  discoverer.  He  is, 
in  fact,  a  man  of  limited  capacity;  and  this  I  con- 
sider great  praise  in  a  certain  sense,  for  though  he  is 
neither  a  musical  nor  any  other  luminary,  and  even 
bears  some  resemblance  to  Lessing's  inquisitive  friar, 
still  he  knows  how  to  confine  himself  within  his  own 
spli'-re.  Music  itself  does  not  interest  him  much,  if 
lu'  can  only  have  it  on  his  shelves:  and  lie  is.  and 
esteems  himself  to  lie,  simply  a  quiet,  zealous  col- 


THK    PAINTERS    T\    ROME.  81 

loctor.  I  must  admit  that  he  is  fatiguing,  and  not 
altogether  free  from  irritability;  still  I  love  any  one 
•who  adopts  and  perseveres  in  some  particular  pur- 
suit, prosecuting  it  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  and 
endeavouring  to  perfect  it  for  the  benefit  of  mankind, 
and  1  think  every  one  ought  to  esteem  him  just  the 
same,  whether  he  chance  to  be  tiresome  or  agree- 
able. 

I  wish  you  would  read  this  aloud  to  P .  It 

always  makes  me  furious  when  men  who  have  no 
pursuit,  presume  to  criticize  those  who  wish  to  effect 
something,  even  on  a  small  scale;  soon  this  very 
account  1  took  the  liberty  of  rebuking  lately  a  cer- 
tain musician  in  society  here.  He  began  to  speak 
of  Mo/art,  and  ns  Bunsen  and  his  sister  love  Pales- 
trina,  he  tried  to  Hatter  their  tastes  by  asking  me, 
for  instance,  what  I  thought  of  the  worthy  Mozart, 
and  all  his  sins.  I  however  replied,  that  so  far  as  I 
was  concerned.  I  should  feel  only  too  happy  to  re- 
nounce all  my  virtues  in  exchange  for  Mozart's  sins  : 
but  that  of  course  I  could  not  venture  to  pronounce 
on  the  extent  of  his  virtues.  The  people  all  laughed, 
and  were  highly  amused.  How  strange  it  is  that 
such  persons  should  feel  no  awe  of  so  great  a  name  ! 

It  is  some  consolation,  however,  that  it  is  the  same 
in  every  sphere  of  art,  as  the  painters  here  are  quite 
as  bad.  They  are  most  formidable  to  look  at,  sitting 
in  their  Caf6  Greco.  I  scarcely  ever  go  there,  for 
I  dislike  both  them  and  their  favourite  places  of  re- 
sort. It  is  a  small  dark  room,  about  eight  feet 
square,  where  on  one  side  you  may  smoke,  but  not 


82 

on  the  other;  so  they  sit  round  on  benches,  with 
their  1 'road-leaved  lints  on  their  heads,  and  their 
huge  mastiff's  beside  them;  their  cheeks  and  throats, 
and  the  whole  of  their  faces  covered  with  hair,  puff, 
ing  forth  clouds  of  smoke  (only  on  one  side  of  the 
room),  and  saying  rude  tilings  to  each  other,  while 
the  mastiffs  swarm  with  vermin.  A  neckcloth  or  a 
coat  would  be  quite  innovations.  Any  portion  of 
the  face  visible  through  the  beard,  is  hid  by  specta- 
cles ;  so  they  drink  coffee,  and  speak  of  Titian  and 
Pordenone,  just  as  if  they  were  sitting  beside  them, 
and  also  wore  beards  and  wide-awakes  !  Moreover, 
they  paint  such  sickly  Madonnas  and  feeble  saints, 
and  such  milk-sop  heroes,  that  I  feel  the  strongest 
inclination  to  knock  them  down.  These  infernal 
critics  do  not  even  shrink  from  discussing  Titian's 
picture  in  the  Vatican,  about  which  you  asked  me; 
they  say  that  it  has  neither  subject  nor  meaning;  yet 
it  never  seems  to  occur  to  them,  that  a  master  who 
had  so  long  studied  a  picture  with  due  love  and 
reverence,  must  have  had  quite  as  deep  an  insight 
into  the  subject  as  they  are  likely  to  have,  even  with 
their  coloured  spectacles.  And  if  in  the  course  of 
my  life  I  accomplish  nothing  but  this.  I  am  at  all 
events  determined  to  say  the  most  harsh  and  cutting 
things  to  those  who  show  no  reverence  towards  their 
masters,  and  then  I  shall  at  least  have  performed 
one  good  work.  13tit  there  they  stand,  and  see  all 
the  splendour  of  those  creations,  so  far  transcending 
their  own  conceptions,  and  yet  dare  to  criticize  them. 
In  this  picture  there  arc  three  stages,  or  whatever 


A     I'AIXTIXO    BY    TTTIAX.  83 

they  are  called,  the  same  as  in  the  "  Transfiguration." 
Below,  saints  and  martyrs  are  represented  in  suffer- 
ing and  abasement ;  on  every  face  is  depicted  sad- 
ness, nay  almost  impatience  ;  one  figure  in  rich 
episcopal  robes  looks  upwards,  with  the  most  eager 
and  agonized  longing,  as  if  weeping,  but  he  cannot 
see  all  that  is  floating  above  his  head,  but  which  we 
see.  standing  in  front  of  the  picture.  Above,  Mary 
and  her  Child  are  in  a  cloud,  radiant  with  joy,  and 
surrounded  by  angels,  who  have  woven  many  gar- 
lands ;  the  Holy  Child  holds  one  of  these,  and  seems 
as  if  about  to  crown  the  saints  beneath,  but  his 
Mother  withholds  his  hand  for  the  moment.  The 
contrast  between  the  pain  and  suffering  below, 
whence  St.  Sebastian  looks  forth  out  of  the  picture 
with  such  gloom  and  almost  apathy,  and  the  lofty 
unalloyed  exultation  in  the  clouds  above,  where 
crowns  and  palms  are  already  awaiting  him,  is  truly 
admirable.  High  above  the  group  of  Mary,  hovers 
the  Holy  Spirit,  from  whom  emanates  a  bright 
streaming  light,  thus  forming  the  apex  of  the  whole 
composition.  I  have  just  remembered  that  Goethe, 
at  the  beginning  of  his  first  visit  to  Rome,  describes 
and  admires  this  picture  ;  but  I  no  longer  have  the 
book  to  enable  me  to  read  it  over,  and  to  compare 
my  description  with  his.  He  speaks  of  it  in  con- 
siderable detail.  It  was  at  that  time  in  the  Quirinal, 
and  subsequently  transferred  to  the  Vatican  ; 
whether  it  was  painted  on  a  given  subject,  as  some 
allege,  or  not,  is  of  no  moment.  Titian  has  imbued 
it  with  his  genius  aud  his  poetical  feeling,  and  has 


84  MEXDELSSOHX'S    LETTERS. 

thus  made  it  his  own.  I  like  Schadow  much,  and  am 
often  with  him  ;  on  every  occasion,  and  especially  in 
his  own  department,  he  is  mild  and  clear-judging, 
doing  justice  with  due  modesty  to  all  that  is  truly 
great ;  he  recently  said  that  Titian  had  never  painted 
an  indifferent  or  an  uninteresting  picture,  and  I  believe 
he  is  right  ;  for  life  and  enthusiasm  and  the  soundest 
vigour  are  displayed  in  all  his  productions,  and  where 
these  are,  it  is  good  to  be  also.  There  is  one  singu- 
lar and  fortunate  peculiarity  here:  though  all  the 
objects  have  been,  a  thousand  times  over,  described, 
discussed,  copied,  and  criticized,  in  praise  or  blame, 
by  the  greatest  masters,  and  the  most  insignificant 
scholars,  cleverly  or  stupidly,  still  they  never  fail  to 
make  a  fresh  and  sublime  impression  on  all.  affecting 
each  person  according  to  his  own  individuality. 
Here  we  can  take  refuge  from  man  in  all  that  sur- 
rounds us;  in  Berlin  it  is  often  exactly  the  reverse. 

I  have  this  moment  received  your  letter  of  the 
27th,  and  am  pleased  to  find  that  I  have  already 
answered  many  of  the  questions  it  contains.  There 
is  no  hurry  about  the  letters  I  asked  for,  as  I  have 
now  made  almost  more  acquaintances  than  I 
wish  ;  besides,  late  hours,  and  playing  so  much,  do 
not  suit  me  in  Rome,  so  I  can  await  the  arrival  of 
these  letters  very  patiently  :  it  was  not  so  at  the 
time  I  urged  you  to  send  them.  I  cannot  however 
understand  what  you  mean  by  your  allusion  to 
coteries  which  I  ought  to  have  outgrown,  for  I 
know  that  I,  and  all  of  us,  invariably  dreaded  and 
detested  what  is  usually  so  called, — that  is,  a 


ST.  PETER'S.  85 

frivolous,  exclusive  circle  of  society,  clinging  to 
empty  outward  forms.  Among  persons,  however, 
who  daily  meet,  while  their  mutual  objects  of 
interest  remain  the  same,  who  have  no  sympathy 
with  public  life  (and  this  is  certainly  the  case 
in  Berlin,  with  the  exception  of  the  theatre),  it  is 
not  unnatural  that  they  should  form  for  themselves 
a  gay,  cheerful,  and  original  mode  of  treating  pass- 
ing events,  and  that  this  should  give  rise  to  a 
peculiar,  and  perhaps  monotonous  style  of  conver 
sation  ;  but  this  by  no  means  constitutes  a  coterie. 
I  feel  convinced  that  I  shall  never  belong  to  one. 
whether  I  am  in  Home  or  Wittenberg.  1  am  glad 
that  the  last  words  I  was  writing  when  your  letter 
arrived,  chanced  to  be  that  in  Berlin  you  must  take 
refuge  in  society  from  all  that  surrounds  you;  thus 
proving  that  I  had  no  spirit  of  coterie,  which  invar- 
iably estranges  men  from  each  other.  1  should 
deeply  regret  your  observing  anything  of  the  kind 
in  me  or  in  any  of  us,  except  indeed  for  the  moment. 
Forgive  me.  my  dear  lather,  for  defending  myself 
so  warmly,  but  this  word  is  most  repugnant  to  my 
feelings,  and  you  say  in  your  letters  that  1  am  always 
to  speak  out  what  I  think  in  a  straightforward 
manner,  so  pray  do  not  take  this  amiss. 

I  was  in  >St.  Peter's  to-day,  where  the  grand 
solemnities  called  the  absolutions  have  begun  for 
the  Pope,  and  which  last  till  Tuesday,  when  the 
Cardinals  assemble  in  conclave.  The  building  sur- 
passes all  powers  of  description.  It  appears  to  me 
like  some  great  work  of  nature,  a  forest,  a  mass  of 
8 


86  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

rocks,  or  something  similar;  for  I  never  can  realize 
(lie  idea  that  it  is  the  work  of  man.  You  strive  to 
distinguish  the  ceiling  as  little  as  the  canopy  of 
heaven.  You  lose  your  way  in  St.  Peter's,  you 
take  a  walk  in  it,  and  ramble  till  you  are  quite 
tired;  when  divine  service  is  performed  and  chanted 
there,  you  are  not  aware  of  it  till  you  come  quite 
close.  The  angels  in  the  Baptistery  are  monstrous 
giants;  the  doves,  colossal  birds  of  prey;  you  lose 
all  idea  of  measurement  with  the  eye.  or  propor- 
tion; and  yet  who  does  not  feel  his  heart  expand, 
when  standing  under  the  dome,  and  gazing  up  at 
.t  ?  At  present  a  monstrous  catafalque  has  been 
erected  in  the  nave  in  this  shape.*  The  coffin  is 
placed  in  the  centre  under  the  pillars  ;  the  thing  jg 
totally  devoid  of  taste,  and  yet  it  has  a  wondrous 
effect.  The  upper  circle  is  thickly  studded  with 
lights,  so  are  all  the  ornaments;  the  lower  circle  is 
lighted  in  the  same  way,  and  over  the  coffin  hangs 
a  burning  lamp,  and  innumerable  lights  are  blazing 
under  the  statues.  The  whole  structure  is  more 
than  a  hundred  feet  high,  and  stands  exactly  oppo 
site  the  entrance.  The  guards  of  honour,  and  the 
Swiss,  march  about  in  the  quadrangle;  in  every 
corner  sits  a  Cardinal  in  deep  mourning,  attended 
by  his  servants,  who  hold  large:  burning  torches, 
and  then  the  singing  commences  with  responses,  in 
the  simple  and  monotonous  tone  you  no  doubt  re- 
member.  It  is  the  only  occasion  when  there  is  any 


us  enclosed  iu  the  letter. 


ST.  PETER'S.  87 

singing  in  ihe  middle  of  the  church,  and  the  effect 
is  wonderful.  Those  who  place  themselves  among 
the  singers  (as  I  do)  and  watch  them,  are  forcibly 
impressed  by  the  scene  :  for  they  all  stand  round  a 
colossal  book  from  which  they  sing,  and  this  book 
io  in  turn  lit  up  by  a  colossal  torch  that  burns 
before  it;  while  the  choir  are  eagerly  pressing  for- 
ward in  their  vestments,  in  order  to  see  and  to  sing 
properly:  and  Baini  with  his  monk's  face,  marking 
time  with  his  hand,  and  occasionally  joining  in  the 
chant  with  a  stentorian  voice.  To  watch  all  these 
ilitlerent  Italian  faces,  was  most  interesting;  one 
enjoy;. lent  quickly  succeeds  another  here,  and  it  is 
the  same  in  their  churches,  especially  in  .St.  Peter's, 
where  by  moving  a  lew  steps  the  whole  scene  is 
changed.  I  went  to  the  very  furthest  end.  whence 
there  was  indeed  a  wonderful  coup  d'ceil.  Through 
the  spiral  columns  of  the  high  altar,  which  is  con- 
fessedly as  high  as  the  paluco  in  Berlin,  far  beyond 
the  space  of  the  cupola,  the  whole  mass  of  the 
catafalque  was  seen  in  diminished  perspective,  with 
its  rows  of  lights,  and  numbers  of  small  human 
beings  crowding  round  it.  When  the  music  com- 
mences, the  sounds  do  not  read',  the  other  end  fcr 
a.  long  time,  but  echo  and  tloat  in  the  vast  space, 
so  that  the  most  singular  and  vague  harmonies  are 
borne  towards  you.  If  you  change  your  position, 
and  place  yourself  riii'ht  in  front  of  the  catafalque, 
beyond  the  blaze  of  light  and  the  brilliant  pagean- 
try, you  have  tin-  dusky  cupola  replete  with  blue  va- 
pour ;  all  this  i*  quite  ind..-scrlbabk>.  rfuc.h  is  Rome! 


88  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

This  has  become  a  long  letter,  so  I  must  con- 
clude ;  it  will  reach  you  on  Christmas-day.  May 
you  all  enjoy  it  happily  !  1  send  each  of  you  pre- 
sents, which  are  to  be  dispatched  two  days  hence, 
and  will  arrive  in  time  for  the  anniversary  of  your 
silver  wedding-day.  Many  glad  festivals  are  thus 
crowded  together,  and  I  scarcely  know  whether  to 
imagine  myself  with  you  to-day,  and  to  wish  you, 
dear  father,  all  possible  happiness,  or  to  arrive  with 
my  letter  at  Christmas,  and  not  to  be  allowed  by 
my  mother  to  pass  through  the  room  with  the 
Christmas-tree.  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  contented 
with  thinking  of  you. — -Farewell  all  !  May  you  be 

happy ! 

FELIX. 

I  have  just  received  your  letter,  which  brings  me 
the  intelligence  of  Goethe's  illness.  What  I  per- 
sonally feel  at  this  news  I  cannot  express.  This 
whole  evening  his  words,  "  I  must  try  to  keep  all 
right  till  your  return,"  have  sounded  continually  in 
my  ears,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  thought : 
when  he  is  gone,  Germany  will  assume  a  very 
different  aspect  for  artists.  I  have  never  thought 
of  Germany  without  feeling  heartfelt  joy  and  pride 
that  Goethe  lived  there ;  and  the  rising  generation 
seem  for  the  most  part  so  weakly  and  feeble,  that  it 
makes  my  heart  sink  within  me.  He  is  the  last; 
and  with  him  closes  a  happy  prosperous  period  for 
as  !  This  year  ends  in  solemn  sadness. 


SIXGIXG  OF  THE  FRE.VCH  XUXS.  89 

Rome,  December  2,oth,  1830. 

In  my  former  letter  I  told  you  of  the  more  serious 
aspect  of  Koman  life ;  but  as  I  wish  to  describe  to 
you  how  I  live,  I  must  now  tell  you  of  the  gayeties 
that  have  prevailed  during  this  week. 

To-day  we  have  the  most  genial  sunshine,  a  blue 
sky,  and  a  transparent  atmosphere,  and  on  such  days 
I  have  my  own  mode  of  passing  my  time.  I  work 
hard  till  eleven  (/clock,  and  from  that  hour  till 
dark,  1  do  nothing  but  breathe  the  air.  For  the 
first  time,  for  some  days  past,  we  yesterday  had 
fine  weather.  After  therefore  working  for  a  time 
in  the  morning  at  "  Solomon,"  I  went  to  the  Monte 
Pincio,  where  I  rambled  about  the  whole  day.  The 
effect  of  this  exhilarating  air  is  quite  magical;  and 
when  I  arose  to-day,  and  again  saw  bright  sunshine, 
I  exulted  in  the  thoughts  of  the  entire  idleness  I 
was  again  about  to  indulge  in.  The  whole  world  is 
on  foot,  revelling  in  a  December  spring.  Every 
moment  you  meet  some  acquaintance,  with  whom 
you  lounge  about  for  a  time,  then  leave  him,  and 
once  more  enjoy  your  solitary  revery.  There  are 
swarms  of  handsome  faces  to  be  seen.  As  the  sun 
declines,  the  appearance  of  the  whole  landscape, 
and  every  hue,  undergo  a  change.  "When  the  Ave 
Maria  sounds,  it  is  time  to  go  to  the  church  of 
Trinita  de'  Monti,  where  French  nuns  sing  ;  and  it 
is  charming  to  hear  them.  I  declare  to  heaven  that 
I  am  become  quite  tolerant,  and  listen  to  bad  music 
with  edification  ;  but  what  can  I  do  ?  the  composi- 
tion is  positively  ridiculous  ;  the  organ  playing  eveu 


90  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

more  absurd.  15ut  it  is  twilight,  and  the  whole  of 
the  small  brio-lit  church  is  filled  with  persons  kneel- 
in  <r,  lit  up  by  the  sinking  sun  each  time  that  the 
door  is  opened ;  both  the  singing  nuns  have  the 
sweetest  voices  in  the  world,  quite  tender  and 
touching,  more  especially  when  one  of  them  sings 
the  responses  in  her  melodious  voice,  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  hear  chanted  by  priests  in  a  loud, 
harsh,  monotonous  tone.  The  impression  is  very 
singular;  moreover,  it  is  well  known  that  no  one  is 
permitted  to  see  the  fair  singers, — so  this  caused  me 
to  form  a  strange  resolution.  I  have  composed 
something  to  suit  their  voices,  which  I  observed 
very  minutely,  and  I  mean  to  send  it  to  them, — 
there  are  several  modes  to  which  I  can  have  re- 
course to  accomplish  this.  That  they  will  sing  it, 
I  feel  quite  assured;  and  it  will  be  pleasant  for  me 
to  hear  my  chant  performed  by  persons  whom  I 
never  saw,  especially  as  they  must  in  turn  sing  it  to 
the  baibaro  Tedesco,  whom  they  also  never  beheld. 
I  am  charmed  with  this  idea.  The  text  is  in  Latin, 
—a  Prayer  to  Mary.  Does  not  this  notion  please 
you  ?* 

After  church  I  walk  again  on  the  hill  until  it  [3 
quite  dark,  when  Madame  Vernet  and  her  daughter, 
and  pretty  Madame  V—  —  (for  whose  acquaintance 
I  have  to  thank  lloesel),  are  much  admired  by  us 
Germans,  and  we  form  groups  round  them,  or  fol- 
low, or  walk  beside  them.  The  background  ig 


*  This  piece  appeared  afterwards  as  Opus  39. 


VERNET    AND    THORWALDSEN.  91 

formed  by  haggard  painters  with  terrific  beards ; 
they  smoke  tobacco  on  the  Monte  Pincu  ,  whistle  to 
their  huge  dogs,  and  enjoy  the  sunset  in  their  own 
way. 

As  I  am  in  a  frivolous  mood  to-day,  I  must  relate 
'.o  you,  dear  sisters,  every  particular  of  a  ball  I 
lately  attended,  and  where  I  danced  with  a  degree 
of  zeal  I  never  did  before.  I  had  spoken  a  few  fair 
words  to  the  maifre  de  dansc  (who  stands  in  the 
middle  here,  and  regulates  everything),  consequently 
he  allowed  the  galop  to  continue  for  more  than  hall 
an  hour,  so  I  was  in  my  element,  and  pleasantly 
conscious  that  I  was  dancing  in  the  Palazzo  Albani. 
in  Rome,  and  also  with  the  prettiest  girl  in  it, 
according  to  the  verdict  of  the  competent  judges 
(Thorwaldsen,  A'ernet,  etc.)  The  way  in  which  1  be 
came  acquainted  with  her  is  also  an  anecdote  of 
Home.  I  was  at  Torlonia's  first  ball)tliou:>li  not  dan- 
cing, as  1  knew  none  of  the  ladies  present,  but  merely 
looking  at  the  people.  .Suddenly  some  one  tapped 
me  on  the  shoulder,  saying.  "  So  you  also  are  admir- 
ing the  English  beauty;  T  am  quite  dazzled."  It 
was  Thorwaldsen  himself  standing  at  the  door,  lost 
in  admiration  ;  scarcely  had  he  said  this,  when  we 
heard  a  torrent  of  words  behind  us. — ••  Mais:  ou 
est-elle  done,  cette  petite  Anglaise?  Ma  femnie 
m'a  envoy£  pour  la  regarder.  Per  ]>acco!"  It 
was  quite  clear  that  this  little  thin  Pri'nchman,  with 
stiff,  grey  hair,  and  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour,  must  be  Horace  Vernet.  He  now  dis- 
cussed the  vouthi'ul  beauty  with  Thorwaldsen,  in  the 


92  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

most  earnest  and  scientific  manner;  and  it  was 
quite  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see  these  two  old  masters 
admiring  the  young  girl  together,  while  she  was 
dancing  away,  quite  unconcerned.  They  were  then 
presented  to  her  parents,  but  I  felt  very  insignifi- 
cant, as  I  could  not  join  in  the  conversation.  A 
few  davs  afterwards,  however,  I  was  with  some 
acquaintances  whom  1  knew  through  the  Attwoods, 
at  Venice,  they  having  invited  me  for  the  purpose 
of  presenting  me  to  some  of  their  friends;  and 
these  friends  turned  out  to  be  the  very  persons  I 
have  been  speaking  of;  so  your  son  and  brother  was 
highly  delighted. 

My  pianoforte  playing  is  a  source  of  great  grati- 
fication to  me  here.  You  know  how  Thorwaldsen 
loves  music,  and  I  sometimes  play  to  him  in  the 
morning  while  he  is  at  work,  lie  has  an  excellent 
instrument  in  his  studio,  and  when  I  look  at  the 
old  gentleman  and  see  him  kneading  his  brown 
clay,  and  delicately  fining  off  an  arm,  or  a  fold  of 
drapery, — in  short,  when  he  is  creating  what  we  must 
all  admire  when  completed,  as  an  enduring  work, 
— then  I  do  indeed  rejoice  that  I  have  the  means  of 
bestowing  any  enjoyment  on  him.  Nevertheless,  I 
have  not  fallen  into  arrear  with  my  own  tasks. 
The  "Hebrides  "  is  completed  at  last,  and  a  strange 
production  it  is.  The  chant  for  the  nuns  is  in  my 
head ;  and  I  think  of  composing  Luther's  choral 
for  Christmas,  but  on  this  occasion  I  must  do  so 
quite  alone  ;  and  it  will  be  a  more  serious  affair  this 
time,  and  so  will  the  anniversary  of  your  silver 


GUIDO'S  "AURORA."  93 

wedding-day,  when  I  intend  to  have  a  great  many 
lights,  and  to  sing  my  "  Liederspiel,"  and  to  have  a 
peep  at  my  English  baton.  After  the  new  year,  I 
intend  to  resume  instrumental  music,  and  to  write 
several  things  for  the  piano,  and  probably  a  sym- 
phony of  some  kind,  for  two  have  been  haunting  my 
brain. 

I  have  lately  frequented  a  most  delightful  spot, — • 
the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Mctella.  The  Sabine  hills  had 
a  sprinkling  of  snow,  but  it  was  glorious  sunshine ; 
the  Alban  hills  were  like  a  dream  or  a  vision. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  distance  in  Italy,  for  all 
the  houses  on  the  hills  can  be  counted,  with  their 
roofs  and  windows.  I  have  thus  inhaled  this  air  to 
satiety;  and  to-morrow  in  all  probability,  more 
serious  occupations  will  be  resumed,  for  the  sky  is 
cloudy,  and  it  is  raining  hard,  but  what  a  spring 
this  will  be  ! 

December  list. 

This  is  the  shortest  day,  and  very  gloomy,  as  might 
have  been  anticipated;  so  to-day  nothing  can  be 
thought  of  but  fugues,  chorals,  balls,  etc.  But  I 
must  say  a  few  words  about  Guide's  •'  Aurora," 
which  I  often  visit;  it  is  a  picture  the  very  type  of 
haste  and  impetus;  for  surely  no  man  ever  imagined 
such  hurry  and  tumult,  such  sounding  and  clashing. 
Painters  maintain  that  it  is  lighted  from  two  sides, — 
they  have  my  full  permission  to  light  theirs  from 
throe  if  it.  will  improve  them, — but  the  difference 
lies  elsewhere. 


94  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  really  cannot  compose  a  tolerable  song  here,  for 
who  is  there  to  sing  it  to  me  ?  But  1  am  writing  a 
grand  fugue.  "  Wir  glauben  all,"  and  sing  it  to  my- 
self in  such  a  fashion  that  my  friend  the  Captain 
rushes  downstairs  in  alarm,  puts  in  his  head,  and 
asks  what  I  want.  I  answer — a  counter  theme. 
But  how  much  I  do  really  want ;  and  yet  how  much 
I  have  got !  Thus  life  passes  onwards. 

FELIX. 


Rome,  December  zSth,  1830. 

Rome  in  wet  weather  is  the  most  odious,  uncom- 
fortable place  imaginable.  For  some  days  past  we 
have  had  incessant  storms  and  cold,  and  streams  of 
water  from  the  sky ;  and  I  can  scarcely  comprehend 
how,  only  one  week  ago,  I  could  write  you  a  letter 
full  of  rambles  and  orange-trees  and  all  that  is 
beautiful :  in  such  weather  as  this  everything  be- 
comes ugly.  Still,  I  must  write  to  you  about  it, 
otherwise  my  previous  letter  would  not  have  the 
advantage  of  contrast,  and  of  that  there  is  no  lack. 
If  in  Germany  we  can  form  no  conception  of  the 
bright  winter  days  here,  quite  us  little  can  we  realize 
a  reallv  wet  winter  day  in  Home;  everything  is 
arranged  for  fine  weather,  so  the  bad  is  borne  like  a 
public  calamity,  and  in  the  hope  of  better  times 
There  is  no  shelter  anywhere;  in  my  room,  which  is 
usually  so  comfortable,  the  water  pours  in  through 


ROME    IX    WET    WEATHER.  95 

the  windows,  which  will  not  shut  fast ;  the  wind 
whistles  through  the  doors,  which  will  not  close  ;  the 
stone  floor  chills  you  in  spite  of  double  mattings, 
and  the  smoke  from  the  chimney  is  driven  into  the 
room,  because  the  fire  will  not  burn;  foreigners 
shiver  and  freeze  here  like  tailors. 

All  this  is,  however,  actual  luxury  when  compared 
with  the  streets  ;  and  when  I  am  obliged  to  go  out, 
I  consider  it  a  positive  misfortune.  Rome,  as  every 
one  knows,  is  built  on  seven  large  hills  ;  but  there 
are  a  number  of  smaller  ones  besides,  and  all  the 
streets  are  sloping,  so  the  water  pours  down  them, 
and  rushes  towards  you  ;  nowhere  is  there  a  raised 
footpath,  or  a  trot  loir;  at  the  stair  of  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna,  there  is  a  flood  like  the  great  water-works 
in  Willielms-Hohe ;  the  Tiber  has  overflowed  its 
banks,  and  inundated  the  adjacent  streets:  this, 
then,  is  the  water  from  below.  From  above  come 
violent  showers  of  rain,  but  that  is  the  least  part. 
The  houses  have  no  water-spouts,  and  the  long  roofs 
slant  precipitously,  but.  being  of  different  lengths, 
this  causes  an  incessant  violent  inundation  on  both 
sides  of  the  street,  so  that  go  where  you  will,  close 
to  the  houses,  or  in  the  middle  of  the  streets,  beside 
a  barber's  shop  or  a  palace,  you  are  sure  to  be  del- 
uged, and.  quite  unawares,  you  find  yourself  standing 
under  a  tremendous  shower-bath,  the  water  pelting 
on  your  umbrella,  while  a  stream  is  runnini;'  before 
you  that  you  cannot  jump  over,  so  you  are  obliged 
to  return  the  way  you  came  :  this  is  the  water  over- 
head. Then  the  carriages  drive  as  rapidly  u.s  possi- 


96  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS 

ble,  and  close  to  the  houses,  so  that  you  must  retreat 
into  the  doorways  till  they  are  past ;  they  not  only 
splash  men  and  houses,  but  each  other,  so  that  when 
two  meet,  one  must  drive  into  the  gutter,  which, 
being  a  rapid  current,  the  consequences  are  lamenta- 
ble. Lately  I  saw  an  Abbate  hurrying  along,  whose 
umbrella  chancing  to  knock  off  the  broad-brimmed 
hat  of  a  peasant,  it  fell  with  the  crown  exposed  to 
one  of  these  deluges,  and  when  the  man  went  to  pick 
it  up,  it  was  quite  filled  with  water.  "Scusi,"  said 
the  Abbate.  "  Padrone,"  replied  the  peasant.  The 
hackney  coaches  moreover  only  ply  till  five  o'clock, 
so  if  you  go  to  a  party  at  night,  it  costs  you  a  scudo. 
Fiat  j until ia  el  pcrcat  mundus — Home  in  rainy 
weather  is  vastly  disagreeable. 

I  see  by  a  letter  of  Devrient's,  that  one  I  wrote 
to  him  from  Yen  ice,  and  which  I  took  to  the  post 
myself  on  the  17th  of  October,  had  not  reached 
him  on  the  19th  of  November.  It  would  appear 
also,  that  another  which  I  sent  the  same  day  to 
Munich  had  not  arrived ;  both  these  letters  con- 
tained music,  and  this  accounts  fo"  the  loss.  At 
that  very  time  in  Venice  they  carried  off  all  my 
manuscripts  to  the  Custom-house,  after  visiting  my 
effects  at  night,  shortly  before  the  departure  of  the 
post,  and  I  only  received  them  again  here,  after 
much  worry  and  writing  backwards  and  forwards. 
Kvcry  one  assured  me  that  the  cause  of  this  was  a 
secret  correspondence  being  suspected  in  cipher  in 
the  manuscript  music.  1  could  scarcely  credit  such 
intolerable  stupidity  ;  but  as  my  two  letters  from 


97 

Venice  containing  music  have  not  arrived,  and 
these  only,  the  thing  is  clear  enough.  I  intend 
to  complain  of  this  to  the  Austrian  ambassador 
here,  but  it  will  do  no  good,  and  the  letters  are 
lost,  which  I  much  regret.  Farewell ! 

FELIX. 


Rome,  January  lyth,  1831. 

For  a  week  past  we  have  had  the  most  lovely 
spring  weather.  Young  girls  are  carrying  about 
nosegays  of  violets  and  anemones,  which  they 
gather  early  in  the  morning  at  the  Villa  Pamfili. 
The  streets  and  squares  swarm  with  gaily  attired 
pedestrians ;  the  Avc  Maria  has  already  been 
advanced  twenty  minutes,  but  what  is  become  of 
the  winter  ?  Some  little  time  ago  it  indeed  re- 
minded me  of  my  work,  to  which  I  now  mean  to 
apply  steadily,  for  1  own  that  during  the  gay  social 
life  of  the  previous  weeks,  I  had  rather  neglected 
it.  I  have  nearly  completed  the  arrangement  of 
'•  Solomon,"  and  also  my  Christmas  anthem,  which 
consists  of  five  numbers  ;  the  two  symphonies  also 
begin  to  assume  a  more  definite  form,  and  I  particu- 
larly wish  to  finish  them  here.  Probably  I  shall  be 
able  to  accomplish  this  during  Lent,  when  parties 
cease  (especially  balls)  and  spring  begins,  and  then 
I  shall  have  both  time  and  inclination  to  compose, 
in  which  case  1  hope  to  have  a  good  store  of  new 


98  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

works.  Any  performance  of  them  here  is  quite  out 
of  the  question.  The  orchestras  are  worse  than 
any  one  could  believe  ;  both  musicians,  and  a  right 
feeling  for  music,  arc  wanting.  The  two  or  three 
violin  performers  play  just  as  they  choose,  and  join 
in  when  they  please;  the  wind  instruments  are 
tuned  either  too  high  or  too  low;  and  they  execute 
flourishes  like  those  we  are  accustomed  to  hear  in 
farm-yards,  but  hardly  so  good  ;  in  short  the  whole 
forms  a  Dutch  concert,  and  this  applies  even  to  com 
positions  with  which  they  are  familiar. 

The  question  is,  whether  all  this  could  be  radi- 
cally reformed  by  introducing  other  people  into  the 
orchestra,  by  teaching  the  musicians  time,  and  by 
instructing  them  in  first  principles.  I  think  in  that 
case  the  people  would  no  doubt  take  pleasure  in  it  ; 
so  long,  however,  as  this  is  not  done,  no  improve- 
ment can  be  hoped  for.  and  every  one  seems  so  in- 
different on  the  subject,  that  there  is  not  the 
slightest  prospect  of  such  a  thing.  1  heard  a  solo 
on  the  flute,  where  the  flute  was  more  than  a  quartei 
of  a  tone  too  high  ;  it  set  my  teeth  on  edii'e.  but  no 
one  remarked  it,  and  when  at  the  end  a  shake 
came,  they  applauded  mechanically.  If  it  were 
even  a  shade  better  with  regard  to  singing  !  Tho 
great  singers  have  left  the  count rv.  Lablache, 
David,  Lalande.  I'isaroni.  etc.,  sing  in  Paris,  and 
the  minor  ones  who  remain,  copy  their  inspired 
moments,  which  they  caricature  in  the  \nost  insup 
portable  manner. 

We  in  Germany  may  perhaps  wish  to  accomplish 


ROMAN    MUSICIANS.  99 

something1  false  or  impossible,  but  it  is,  and  always 
will  be,  quite  dissimilar;  and  just  as  a  cicisbeo 
will  for  ever  be  odious  and  repulsive  to  my  feelings, 
so  is  it  also  with  Italian  music.  I  may  be  too 
obtuse  to  comprehend  either ;  but  T  shall  never  feel 
otherwise ;  and  recently,  at  the  Philharmonic,  after 
the  music  of  Pacini  and  Bellini,  when  the  Cavaliere 
Ricci  begged  me  to  accompany  him  in  "Non  pi  ft 
andrai,"  the  very  first  notes  were  so  utterly  different 
and  so  infinitely  remote  from  all  the  previous  music, 
that  the  matter  was  clear  to  me  then,  and  never  will 
it  be  equalized,  so  long  as  there  is  such  a  blue  sky, 
and  such  a  charming  winter  as  the  present.  In  the 
same  way  the  Swiss  can  paint  no  beautiful  scenery, 
precisely  because  they  have  it  the  whole  day  before 
their  eves.  "  Les  Allemands  traitent  la  musique 
comme  une  affaire  d'6tat,"  says  Spontini,  and  I 
accept  the  axiom.  1  lately  heard  some  musicians 
here  talking  of  their  composers,  and  I  listened  in 
silence.  One  quoted ,  but  the  others  interrup- 
ted him,  saying  he  could  not  be  considered  an 
Italian,  for  the  German  school  still  clung  to  him, 
and  he  had  never  been  able  to  get  rid  of  it ;  conse- 
quently he  had  lever  been  at  home  in  Italy:  we 
Germans  say  precisely  the  reverse  of  him,  and  it 
nr.ist  be  not  a  little  trying  to  find  yourself  so  cut  re 
ih  >!,c.  and  without  any  fatherland.  Bo  far  as  I  am 
concerned  I  stick  to  my  own  colours,  which  are 
quite  honourable  enough  for  me. 

Last  night  a  theatre  that  Torlonia  has  undertaken 
and  organized,  was  opened  with  a  new  opera  of  Pa- 


dill  S. 

\villi  handsome,  well-dressed  people;  young  Torlouia 
appeared  in  ;i  stage-box  \villi  his  mother,  the  old 
Ihichess.  and  they  were  immensely  applauded.  The 
audience  called  out  Bravo,  Torlonia,  gnizic,grazie  I 
Opposite  to  him  was  Jerome,  with  his  suite,  and 
covered  with  orders  :  in  the  next  box  Countess 
Hamoiiow,  etc.  Over  the  orchestra  is  a  picture  of 
Time  pointing  to  the  dial  of  the  clock,  which  re- 
volves slowly,  and  is  enough  to  make  any  one  melan- 
choly. Pacini  then  appeared  at  the  piano,  and  was 
kindly  welcomed,  lie  had  prepared  no  overture,  so 
the  opera  began  with  a  chorus,  accompanied  by 
strokes  on  an  anvil  tuned  in  the  proper  key.  The 
Corsair  fume  forward,  sang  his  aria,  and  was  ap- 
plauded, on  which  the  Corsair  above,  and  the 
Maestro  below,  bowed  (this  pirate  is  a  contralto, 
and  sung  by  Mademoiselle  Mariani)  ;  a  variety  of 
airs  followed,  and  the  piece  became  very  tiresome. 
This  seemed  to  be  also  the  opinion  of  the  public,  for 
when  Pacini's  grand  finale  began,  the  whole  pit 
stood  up,  talking  to  each  other  as  loud  as  they 
^ould.  laughing  and  turning  their  backs  on  the  stage. 
Madame  Hamoilow  fainted  in  her  box.  and  was  car- 
ried out.  Pacini  glided  away  from  the  piano,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  act.  the  curtain  fell  in  the  midst 
of  a  great  tumult.  Then  came  the  grand  ballet  of 
llnrltc,  llli'Hi',  followed  by  the  last  act  of  the  opera, 
As  the  audience  were  now  in  a  mood  for  if.  they 
hissed  the  whole  ballet  from  the  very  beginning,  and 
accompanied  the  second  act  also  with  hooting  and 


NEW    OPERA    BY    PACINI.  101 

laughter.  At  the  close  Torlonia  was  called  for,  but 
he  would  not  appear. 

This  is  the  matter-of-fact  narrative  of  a  first  perfor- 
mance at  the  opening  of  a  theatre  in  Rome.  I  had 
anticipated  much  amusement,  so  I  came  away  con- 
siderably out  of  humour ;  still,  if  the  music  had  made 
furore,  I  should  have  been  very  indignant,  for  it  is 
so  wretched  that  it  really  is  beneath  all  criticism. 
But  that  they  should  turn  their  backs  on  their  fa- 
vourite Pacini,  whom  they  wished  to  crown  in  the 
Capitol,  parody  his  melodies,  and  sing  them  in  a 
ludicrous  style,  this  does,  I  confess,  provoke  me  not 
a  little,  and  is  likewise  a  proof  of  how  low  such  a 
musician  stands  in  the  public  opinion.  Another 
time  they  will  carry  him  home  on  their  shoulders; 
but  this  is  no  compensation.  They  would  not  act 
thus  in  France  with  regard  to  Boieldieu  ;  indepen- 
dent of  all  love  of  art,  a  sense  of  propriety  would 
prevent  their  doing  so:  but  enough  of  this  subject, 
for  it  is  too  vexatious. 

Why  should  Italy  still  insist  on  being  the  land  of 
Art,  while  it  is  in  reality  the  Land  of  Nature,  thus 
delighting  every  heart !  I  have  already  described 
to  you  my  walks  to  the  Monte  Pincio.  I  continue 
them  daily.  I  went  lately  with  the  Vollards  to 
Ponte  Nomentano,  a  solitary  dilapidated  bridge  in 
the  spacious  green  Campagna.  Many  ruins  from 
the  days  of  ancient  Home,  and  many  watch-towers 
from  the  Middle  Ages,  are  scattered  over  this  long 
succession  of  meadows  ;  chains  of  hills  rise  towards 

the  horizon,  now  partially  covered  with  .-now,  and 
0- 


102  MEXDELSSOnx's   LETTERS. 

fantastically  varied  in  form  and  colour  by  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds.  And  there  is  also  the  en- 
chanting, vapoury  vision  of  the  Alban  hills,  which 
change  their  hues  like  a  chameleon,  as  you  ga/e  at 
them, — where  yon  can  see  for  miles  little  white 
chapels  glittering  on  the  dark  ground  of  the  hills, 
as  far  as  the  Passionist  Convent  on  the  summit, 
and  whence  you  can  trace  the  road  winding  through 
thickets,  and  the  hills  sloping  downwards  to  the 
Lake  of  Albano.  while  a  hermitage  peeps  through 
the  trees.  The  distance  is  equal  to  that  from  Ber- 
lin to  Potsdam,  say  I  as  a  good  Berliner ;  but  that 
it  is  a  lovely  vision.  I  suy  in  earnest.  Xo  lack  of 
music  there;  it  echoes  and  vibrates  there  on  every 
side;  not  in  the  vapid,  tasteless  theatres.  So  we 
rambled  about,  chasing  each  other  in  the  Campagna, 
and  jumping  over  the  fences,  and  when  the  sun  went 
down  we  drove  home,  feeling  so  weary,  and  yet  so  self- 
satisfied  and  pleased,  as  if  we  had  done  great  things; 
and  so  we  have,  if  we  riijhlh/  apprcf'iaie.il  it  all. 

I  have  now  applied  myself  a '.rain  to  drawing,  and 
have  latterly  put  in  some  tints,  as  I  should  be  glad 
to  bo  able  to  recall  some  of  these  bright  hues,  and 
practice  quickens  the  perceptions.  I  must  now 
tell  you.  dear  mother,  of  a  great,  very  great  pleasure 
I  recently  enjoyed,  because  you  will  rejoice  with 
me.  Two  /lays  ago  I  was  for  the  first  time  in  a 
small  circle  with  Horace  Vernot,  and  played  there, 
lie  had  previously  told  me  that  his  most  favourite 
and  esteemed  music  was  "Don  Juan/'  especially 
the  Duet  and  the  Commeudatore  at  the  end ;  and  as 


HORACE    YERXET.  103 

I  highly  approved  of  such  sentiments  on  his  part, 
the  result  was,  that  while  playing 'a  prelude  to 
Wener's  Cuncert-S  u<-k.  I  imperceptibly  glided  fur- 
ther into  extemporizing — thought  I  would  please 
him  by  taking  these  themes,  and  so  1  worked  them 
up  fancifully  for  some  time.  This  caused  him  a 
degree  of  delight  far  beyond  what  I  ever  knew  my 
music  produce  in  any  one,  and  we  became  at  once 
more  intimate.  Afterwards  lie  suddenly  came  up 
to  me.  and  whispered  that  we  must  make  an  ex- 
change, for  that  he  also  was  an  improvisatore  ;  and 
when  I  was  naturally  curious  to  know  what  he 
meant,  he  said  it  was  his  secret.  He  is  however 
like  a  little  child,  and  could  not  conceal  it  for  more 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  he  came  in  again, 
and  takintr  me  into  the  next  room,  he  asked  me  if  I 
had  any  tim?  to  spare,  as  he  had  stretched  and 
prepared  a  canvas,  and  proposed  painting  my  por- 
trait on  it.  which  1  was  to  keep  in  memory  of  this 
day,  or  roll  it  up  and  send  it  to  you.  or  take  it  with 
me,  just  as  I  chose.  lie  said  he  should  have  no 
easy  task  with  his  improvisation,  but  at  all  events 
he  would  attempt  it.  I  was  only  too  glad  to  give 
my  consent,  and  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  was 
enchanted  with  the  delight  and  enthusiasm  he  evi- 
dently felt  in  my  playing. 

It  was  in  every  respect  a  happy  evening;  as  I 
ascended  the  hill  with  him,  all  was  so  still  and 
peaceful,  and  only  one  window  lit  up  in  the  large 
dark  villa.*  Fragments  of  music  floated  on  the 


*  Vernet  lived  in  the  V  lla.  Meuici. 


104  ME.VDELSSOII.V'S    LETTERS. 

air,  and  its  echoes  in  the  dark  night,  mingled  with 
the  murmuring  of  fountains,  were  swifter  than  I  can 
describe.     Two  young-  students  were  drilling  in  the 
anteroom,  while  the  third  acted  the  part  of  lieuten- 
ant,   and    commanded    in    good    form.     In    another 
room  my  friend  Montfort,  who  gained  the  prize  for 
music  in  the  Conservatorium,  was  seated  at  a  piano, 
and  others  were  standing  round,  singing  a  chorus; 
but  it  went  very  badly.     They  urged  another  young 
man  to  join  them,  and  when  he  said  that  he  did  not 
know  how  to  sing,  his  friend    rejoined,    "  Qu'est-ce 
quo  c,a  fait?  c'est  toujours  line  voix  de  plus!"     I 
helped    them    as    I  best   could,  and   we    were  well 
amused.     Afterwards  we    danced,  and   I  wish   you 
could  have  seen  Louisa  Vcrnet  dancing  the    Salta- 
rella  with   her    father.     When    at   length    she    was 
forced  to  stop  for  a  few  moments,  and  snatched  up 
a    tambourine,    playing    with    the    utmost    spirit, 
and   relieving   us,   who    could    really   scarcely  any 
longer   move    our   hands,  I  wished    1    had   been  a 
painter,  for  what  a  superb  picture  she  would  have 
made  !     Her  mother  is  the  kindest  creature  in  the 
world,  and   the   grandfather,  Charles  Yernet    (who 
paints  such  splendid  horses),  danced  a  quadrille  the 
same  evening  with  so  much  ease,  making  so  many 
entrechats,  and  varying  his  steps  so  gracefully,  that 
it  is  a  sad  pity  he  should  actually  be  seventy-two 
years  of  age.     Every  day  he  rides, and  tires  out  two 
horses,   paints   and   draws  a  little,  and  spends  the 
evening  in  society. 

In  my  next  letter  I  must  tell  you  of  my  acquaiu 


BIRTH-DAY.  105 

tance  with  Robert,  who  has  just  finished  an  admira- 
ble picture,  "The  Harvest,"  ind  also  describe  my 
lecent  visits  with  Bunsento  the  studios  of  Cornelius, 
Koch,  Overbeck,  etc.  My  time  is  fully  occupied, 
for  there  is  plenty  to  do  and  to  see  ;  unluckily  1  can- 
not make  time  elastic,  however  much  I  may  strive  to 
extend  it.  I  have  as  yet  said  nothing  of  Raphael's 
portrait  as  a  child,  and  Titian's  •'  Nymphs  Bathing," 
who  in  a  piquant  enough  fashion  are  designated 
"Sacred  and  Profane  Love,"  one  being  in  full  gala 
costume,  while  the  other  is  devoid  of  all  drapery,* 
or  of  my  exquisite  "Madonna  di  Foligno,"  or  of 
Francesco  Francia,  the  most  guileless  and  devout 
painter  in  the  world  ;  or  of  poor  Guido  Ileni,  whom 
the  bearded  painters  of  the  present  day  treat  with 
such  contempt,  and  yet  he  painted  a  certain  Aurora, 
and  many  other  splendid  objects  besides  ;  but  what 
avails  description?  It  is  well  for  me  that  I  can 
revel  in  the  sight  of  them.  When  we  meet,  I  may 
perhaps  be  able  to  give  you  a  better  idea  of  them. 
Your 

FELIX 


Rome,  February  1st,  1831. 

I  intended  not  to  write  to  you  till  my  birthday,  but 
possibly  two  days  hence  I  may  not  be  in  a  writing 
mood,  and  must  drive  all  fancies  away  by  hard  work. 
It  does  not  seem  probable  that  the  Papal  mill- 

*  This  picture  is  in  the  Borghese  Gallery. 


106  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

tary  band  will  surprise  me  in  the  morning,*  and  as  1 
have  told  all  my  acquaintances  that  I  was  born  on 
the  25th,  I  think  the  day  will  glide  quietly  by ;  I 
prefer  this  to  a  trivial  half-and-half  celebration.  I 
will  place  your  portrait  before  me  in  the  morning, 
and  feel  happy  in  looking  at  it  and  in  thinking  of 
you.  I  shall  then  play  over  my  military  overture, 
and  select  my  favourite  dish  for  dinner,  from  the 
carte  at  the  L>>pre.  It  is  not  unprofitable  to  be 
obliged  to  do  all  this  for  one's  self,  both  on  birth- 
days and  other  days.  I  feel  isolated  enough,  and  am 
rather  partial  to  the  other  extreme.  At  night  the 
Torlonias  are  so  obliging  as  to  give  a  ball  to  eight 
hundred  persons  ;  on  Wednesday,  the  day  before, 
and  on  Friday,  the  day  after  my  birthday,  I  am  in- 
vited to  the  house  of  some  English  friends.  During 
the  previous  week,  I  have  been  busily  engaged  in 
sight-seeing,  and  revisited  many  well-known  objects  ; 
- — thus  I  was  in  the  Vatican,  the  Farnesina,  Corsini, 
the  Villa  Lante,  Borghese,  etc.  Two  days  ago  I 
saw  the  frescoes  for  the  first  time  in  Bartholdy's 
house;f  inasmuch  as  the  English  ladies  who  reside 
there,  and  who  have  transformed  the  painted  saloon 
into  a  sleeping  apartment,  with  a  four-post  bed, 
would  never  hitherto  permit  me  to  enter  it.  So  this 
was  my  first  visit  to  my  uncle's  house,  where  at  last 
I  saw  his  pictures,  and  the  view  of  the  city.  It  was 


\VIXTKI;  ix   ROME.  107 

a  noble,  regal  idea  to  have  these  frescoes  ;  and  the 
execution  ol'  such  a  sublime  thought,  in  spite  of  every 
kind  of  impediment  and  annoyance,  simply  in  order 
that  the  design  should  be  carried  out,  seems  to  me 


Uut  to  turn  to  an  entirely  different  subject.  In 
many  circles  here,  it  is  the  fashion  to  consider  piety 
and  dulness  synonymous,  and  yet  they  are  very  dif- 
ferent ;  our  (Jerman  clergyman  here  is  not  behind- 
hand in  this  respect.  There  are  men  in  Rome  with 
an  aim  unit  of  fanaticism  credible  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  but  quite  monstrous  in  the  present  day; 
they  all  wish  to  make  converts,  abusing  each  other 
in  a  Christian  manner,  and  each  ridiculing  the  belief 
of  his  neighbour,  till  it  is  quite  too  sad  to  hear  them. 
As  if  to  have  simplicity,  and  to  be  simple,  were  the 
same  thing!  Unfortunately  I  must  here  retract  my 
favourite  axiom,  that  yotxlwHl  can  effect  all  things, 
a}i/u'i/  must  accompany  it ;  but  I  am  soaring  too 
high,  and  my  father  will  lecture  me.  I  wish  this 
letter  were  better,  but  we  have  snow  on  the  ground : 
the  roofs  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  arc  quite  white, 
and  heavy  clouds  of  snow  are  gathering;  nothing 
can  be  more  odious  to  us  Southerners,  and  we  are 
freezing.  The  Monte  Pincio  is  a  mass  of  ice.  Your 
Northern  Lights  have  their  revenge  on  us.  AVho 
can  write  or  think  with  any  degree  of  warmth?  I 
was  so  pleased  at  the  idea  of  being  a  whole  winter 
without  snow,  but  now  I  must  give  up  that  notion. 
The  Italians  say  that  spring  breezes  will  come  in  a 
few  days ;  then  gay  life,  and  gay  letters,  will  be  re- 


108  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS, 

sumed.     Farewell !  may  you  enjoy  every  good,  and 
think  of  me.  FKLIX. 


Rome,  February  8th,  1831. 

The  Pope  is  elected  :  the  Pope  is  crowned.  He 
performed  mass  in  St.  Peter's  on  Sunday,  and  con- 
ferred his  benediction ;  in  the  evening  the  dome 
was  illuminated,  succeeded  by  the  Girandola ;  the 
Carnival  began  on  Saturday,  and  pursues  its  head- 
long course  in  the  most  motley  forms.  The  city 
has  been  illuminated  each  evening.  Last  night 
tl'>re  was  a  ball  at  the  French  Embassy  ;  to-day  the, 
Spanish  Ambassador  gives  a  grand  entertainment. 
Next  door  to  me  they  sell  coufdti,  and  how  they  do 
shout  !  And  now  1  might  as  well  stop,  for  why 
attempt  to  describe  what  is,  in  fact,  indescribable  ? 
You  ought  to  make  ITensel  tell  you  of  these  splen- 
did fetes,  which  in  pomp,  brilliancy,  and  animation, 
surpass  all  the  imagination  can  conceive,  for  my 
sober  pen  is  not  equal  to  the  task.  What  a  differ- 
ent aspect  everything  has  assumed  during  the  last 
eight  days,  for  now  the  mildest  and  most  genial  sun 
is  shining,  and  we  remain  in  the  balcony  enjoying 
the  air  till  after  sunset.  Oh,  that  I  could  enclose 
for  you,  in  this  letter,  only  one  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
all  this  pleasure,  or  tell  y<m  how  life  actually  flies  in 
Rome,  every  minute  bringing  its  own  memorable  de- 
lights !  Jt  is  not  difficult  to  give/2/es  here;  if  the 
simple  architectural  outlines  are  lighted  up,  the 


ELECTION    OF    THE    POPE.  109 

dome  of  St.  Peter's  blazes  forth  in  the  dark  purple 
atmosphere,  calmly  shining-.  Jf  there  are  fireworks, 
they  brighten  the  gloomy  solid  walls  of  the  Castle 
of  St.  Angelo.  and  fall  into  the  Tiber;  when  they 
commence  their  fantastic  ftles  in  February,  the  most 
lustrous  sun  shines  down  on  them  and  beautifies 
them.  It  is  a  wondrous  land. 

But  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  I  spent  my 
birthday  very  differently  from  what  I  expected.  I 
must  however  be  brief,  for  an  hour  hence  I  go  to 
join  the  Carnival  in  the  Corso.  My  birthday  had 
three  celebrations — the  eve,  the  birthday  itself,  and 
the  day  after.  On  the  2nd  of  February,  Santini 
was  sitting  in  my  room  in  the  morning,  and  in 
answer  to  my  impatient  questions  about  the  Con- 
clave, he  replied  with  a  diplomatic  air.  that  there 
was  little  chance  of  a  Pope  being  elected  before 
Easter,  llerr  Brisbane  also  called,  and  told  me 
that  after  leaving  Berlin,  he  had  been  in  Constanti- 
nople, and  Smyrna,  etc.,  and  inquired  after  all  his 
acquaintances  in  Berlin,  when  suddenly  the  report 
of  a  cannon  was  heard,  and  then  another,  and  the 
people  rushed  across  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  shouting 
with  all  their  might.  We  three  started  off,  Heaven 
knows  how,  and  ran  breathlessly  to  the  Quirinal, 
where  the  man  was  just  retreating,  who  had  shouted 
through  a  broken  window — "Annuncio  vobis  gau- 
dium  magnum;  habemus  Papam  K.  E.  dominum 
L'apellari,  qui  nomeu  assumsit  Gregorius  XVI." 
All  the  Cardinals  now  crowded  into  the  balcony,  to 
breathe  fresh  air,  and  laughed,  and  talked  together 
10 


110  MENDELSSOHN'S  I.KTTERS. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  in  the  open  air 
for  fifty  days,  and  yet  they  looked  so  gay,  their  red 
caps  shining  brightly  in  the  sun;  the  whole  Piazza 
was  filled  with  people,  who  clambered  on  the  obelisk, 
and  on  the  horses  of  Phidias,  and  the  statues  pro- 
jected far  above  in  the  air.  Carriage  after  carriage 
drove  up,  amid  jostling  and  shouting.  Then  the 
new  Pope  appeared,  and  before  him  was  borne  the 
golden  cross,  and  ho  blessed  the  crowd  for  the  first 
time,  while  the  people  at  the  same  moment  prayed, 
and  cried  '•  Hurrah  !  "  All  the  bells  in  Koine  were 
ringing,  and  there  was  firing  of  cannons,  and  flour- 
ishes of  trumpets,  and  military  music.  This  was 
the  eve  of  my  birthday. 

Next  morning  1  followed  the  crowd  down  the  long 
street  to  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's,  which  looked 
finer  than  I  had  ever  seen  it,  lit  up  brightly  by  the 
sun,  and  swarming  with  carriages  ;  the  Cardinals  iu 
their  red  coaches,  driving  in  state  to  the  sacristy, 
with  servants  in  embroidered  liveries,  and  people 
innumerable,  of  every  nation,  rank,  and  condition  ; 
and  high  above  them  the  dome  and  the  church 
seeming  to  float  in  blue  vapour,  for  there  was  con- 
siderable mist  in  the  morning  air.  And  I  thought 
that  Capellari  would  probably  appropriate  all  this 
to  himself  when  lie  saw  it;  but  I  knew  better.  It 
was  all  to  celebrate  my  birthday;  and  the  election  of 
the  Pope,  and  the  homage,  a  mere  spectacle  in  honour 
of  me;  but  it  was  well  and  naturally  performed;  and 
so  long  as  1  live,  I  shall  never  forget  it. 

The   Church   of  St.  Peter's   was   crowded  to  the 


BEGINNING    OF    THE    CARNIVAL.  Ill 

door.  The  Pope  was  borne  in  on  his  throne,  and 
fans  of  peacocks'  feathers  carried  before  him,  and 
then  set  down  on  the  High  Altar,  when  the  Papal 
singers  intoned,  "  Tn  es  sacerdos  mag ttus."  I  only 
hoard  two  or  three  chords,  but  it  required  no  more; 
the  sound  was  enough.  Then  one  Cardinal  suc- 
ceeded another,  kissing  the  Pope's  foot  and  his 
hands,  when  he  in  turn  embraced  them.  After  sui 
veying  all  this  for  a  time,  standing  closely  pressed 
by  a  crowd,  and  unable  to  move,  to  look  suddenly 
alolt  to  the  dome,  as  far  as  the  lantern,  inspires  a 
singular  sensation,  i  was  with  Diodati,  among  a 
throng  of  Capuchins  ;  these  saintly  men  are  far  from 
being  devotional  on  an  occasion  of  this  kind,  and  by 
no  means  cleanly.  But  I  must  hasten  on  ;  the  Car- 
nival is  beginning,  and  I  must  not  lose  any  portion 
of  it. 

At  night,  (in  honour  of  my  birthday.)  barrels  of 
pitch  were  burned  in  all  the  streets,  and  the  Propa- 
ganda illuminated.  The  people  thought  this  was 
owing  to  its  being  the  former  residence  of  the  Pope, 
but  /knew  it  was  because  1  lived  exactly  opposite, 
and  I  had  only  to  lean  out  of  my  window  to  enjoy  it 
all.  Then  came  Torlonia's  ball,  and  in  every  corner 
were  seen  glimpses  of  red  caps  above,  and  red  stock- 
ings below.  The  following  day  they  worked  very 
hard  at  scaffoldings,  platforms,  and  stages  for  the 
Carnival;  edicts  were  posted  up  about  horse-racing, 
and  specimens  of  masks  were  displayed  at  the 
windows,  and  (in  celebration  of  the  day  following  my 
birthday)  the  illumination  of  the  dome,  and  the  Gi- 


112  MENDELSSOHN'S  LKTTKRS. 

randola  were  fixed  for  Sunday.  On  Saturday  all  the 
world  went  to  the  Capitol,  to  witness  the  form  of  the 
Jews'  supplications  to  be  suffered  to  remain  in  the 
Sacred  City  for  another  year;  a  request  which  is 
refused  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  but  after  repeated 
entreaties,  granted  on  the  summit,  and  the  Ghetto  is 
assigned  to  them.  It  was  a  tiresome  affair ;  we 
waited  two  hours,  and  after  all,  understood  the 
oration  of  the  Jews  as  little  as  the  answer  of  the 
Christians.  I  came  down  again  in  very  bad  humour, 
and  thought  that  the  Carnival  had  commenced 
rather  unpropitiously.  So  I  arrived  in  the  Corso 
and  was  driving  along,  thinking  no  evil,  when  I  was 
suddenly  assailed  by  a  shower  of  sugar  comfits.  I 
looked  up  ;  they  had  been  flung  by  some  young  ladies 
whom  1  had  seen  occasionally  at  balls,  but  scarcely 
knew,  and  when  in  my  embarrassment  1  took  off  my 
hat  to  bow  to  them,  the  pelting  began  in  right  earnest. 
Their  carriage  drove  on,  and  in  the  next  was  Miss 

T ,  a  delicate  young  Englishwoman.     I  tried  to 

bow  to  her,  but  she  pelted  me  too,  so  1  became  quite 
desperate,  and  clutching  the  confetti,  1  flung  them 
back  bravely;  there  were  swarms  of  my  acquaint- 
ances, and  my  blue  coat  was  soon  as  white  as  that  of 

a  miller.     The  B s  were  standing  on  a  balcony, 

flinging  cmifcfli  like  hail  at  my  head;  and  thus  pelt- 
ing and  pelted,  amid  a  thousand  jests  and  jeers,  and 
the  most  extravagant  masks,  the  day  ended  with 
races. 

The  following  day  there  was  no  carnival,  but  as  a 
compensation,  the   Pope  conferred    his  benediction 


CARNIVAL.  113 

from  the  Loggia,  in  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's ;  he 
was  consecrated  as  Bishop  in  the  Church,  and  at 
night  the  dome  was  lighted  up.  The  sudden,  nay 
instantaneous  change  the  illumination  of  the  building 
effects,  you  must  ask  Hensel  to  paint  or  to  describe, 
whichever  he  prefers.  Nothing  can  be  more  startling 
than  the  sudden  and  surprising  vision,  of  so  many 
hundred  human  beings,  previously  invisible,  now  re- 
vealed as  it  were  in  the  air,  working  and  moving 
about — and  the  glorious  Giraudola,- — but  who  can 
conceive  it!  Now  the  gaieties  recommence.  Fare- 
well !  in  my  next  letter  I  mean  to  continue  my  de- 
scription. Yesterday,  at  the  Carnival,  flowers  and 
bonbons  were  indiscriminately  thrown,  and  a  mask 
gave  me  a  bouquet,  which  I  have  dried,  and  mean  to 
bring  home  for  you.  All  idea  of  occupation  is  out 
of  the  question  at  present ;  I  have  only  composed 
one  little  song ;  but  when  Lent  comes,  I  intend  to  be 
more  industrious.  Who  can  at  such  a  moment  think 
either  of  writing  or  music  ?  I  must  go  out,  so  fare, 
well,  dear  ones.  FELIX. 


Rome,  February   22nd,  1831. 

A  thousand  thanks  for  your  letter  of  the  8th, 
which  I  received  yesterday,  on  my  return  from 
Tivoli.  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear  Fanny,  how  much  1 
am  delighted  with  your  plan  about  the  Sunday  music. 
This  idea  of  yours  is  most  brilliant,  and  I  do  entreat 
of  you,  for  Heaven's  sake,  not  to  let  it  die  away 
again  ;  on  the  contrary,  pray  give  your  travelling 
10* 


114  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

brother  a  commission  to  write  something  new  for 
you.  He  will  gladly  do  so,  for  he  is  quite  charmed 
with  you,  and  with  your  project.  You  must  let  me 
know  what  voices  you  have,  and  also  take  counsel 
witli  your  subjects  as  to  what  they  like  best  (for 
the  people,  0  Fanny,  have  rights).  I  think  it 
would  be  a  good  plan  to  place  before  them  some- 
thing easy,  interesting  and  pleasing, — for  instance, 
the  Litany  of  Sebastian  Bach.  But  to  speak  seri- 
ously, I  recommend  the  "  Shepherd  of  Israel,"  or 
the  '•  Dixit  Dominus,"  of  Hsendel. 

Do  you  mean  to  play  something  during  the  inter- 
vals to  those  people?  I  think  this  would  not  be 
unprofitable  to  either  party,  for  they  must  have  time 
to  take  breath,  and  you  must  study  the  piano,  and 
thus  it  would  become  a  vocal  and  instrumental  con- 
cert. I  wish  so  much  that  I  could  be  one  of  the 
audience,  and  compliment  you  afterwards.  Be  dis- 
creet and  indulgent,  and  avoid  fatiguing  either 
yourself  or  the  voices  of  your  singers.  Do  not  be 
irritable  when  things  go  badly;  say  very  little  on  the 
subject  to  any  one.  Lastly,  above  all,  endeavour  tc 
prevent  the  choir  feeling  any  tedium,  for  this  is  the 
principal  point.  One  of  my  pieces  certainly  owes 
its  birth  to  this  Sunday  music.  When  you  wrote  to 
me  about  it  lately,  I  reflected  whether  there  was  any- 
thing I  could  send  vou,  thus  reviving  an  old  favourite 
Bcheme  of  mine,  which  has  however  now  assumed 
such  vast  proportions,  that  1  cannot  let  you  have 

any  part  of  it  by  E ,  but  you  shall  have  it  at 

Bome  future  time. 


"  SVALPURGIS    NIGHT."  115 

Listen  and  wonder  !  Since  I  left  Vienna  I  have 
partly  composed  Goethe's  first  "  Walpurgis  Night," 
but  have  not  yet  had  courage  to  write  it  down.  The 
composition  has  now  assumed  a  form,  and  become 
a  grand  Cantata,  with  full  orchestra,  and  may  turn 
out  well.  At  the  opening  there  are  songs  of  spring, 
etc.,  and  plenty  of  others  of  the  same  kind.  After- 
wards, when  the  watchmen  with  their  "  Galie'm,  und 
Zacken,  und  Eulen,"  make  a  great  noise,  the  fairy 
frolics  begin,  and  you  know  that  I  have  a  particular 
foible  for  them  ;  the  sacrificial  Druids  then  appear, 
with  their  trombones  in  C  major,  when  the  watch- 
men come  in  again  in  alarm,  and  here  I  mean  to 
introduce  a  light  mysterious  tripping  chorus  ;  and 
lastly  to  conclude  with  a  grand  sacrificial  hymn. 
Do  you  not  think  that  this  might  develop  into  a 
new  style  of  Cantata  ?  I  have  an  instrumental  in- 
troduction, as  a  matter  of  cour.se.  and  the  effect  of 
the  whole  is  very  spirited.  1  hope  it  will  soon  be 
finished.  I  have  once  mure  begun  to  compose  with 
fresh  vigour,  and  the  Italian  symphony  makes  rapid 
progress;  it  will  be  the  most  sportive  piece  I  have 
yet  composed,  especially  the  last  movement.  I 
have  not  yet  decided  on  the  adayin,  and  think  I 
shall  reserve  it  for  Naples.  "Verleih  tins  Frieden" 
is  completed,  and  "Vrir  glanben  all"  will  also  be 
ready  in  a  fuw  days.  The  -Scotch  symphony  alone 
is  not  yet  quite  to  my  liking-;  if  any  brilliant  idea- 
occurs  to  me,  I  will  seize  it  at  once,  quickly  write  it 
down,  and  finish  it  at  last.  FELIX. 


110  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Rome,  March    1st,  1831. 

AVhlle  1  write  this  date,  1  shrink  from  the  thought 
of  how  time  flics.  Before  this  month  is  at  an  end 
the  Holy  Week  begins,  and  when  it  is  over,  my  stay 
in  Hume  will  be  drawing  to  a  close.  I  now  try  to 
reflect  whether  I  have  made  the  best  use  of  my  time, 
and  on  every  side  1  perceive  a  deficiency.  If  J 
could  only  compass  one  of  my  two  symphonies  !  I 
must  and  will  reserve  the  Italian  one  till  1  have  seen 
Naples,  which  must  play  a  part  in  it,  lint  the  other 
also  seems  to  elude  my  grasp ;  the  more  1  try  to 
seize  it,  and  the  nearer  the  end  of  this  delightful 
quiet  Roman  period  approaches,  the  more-  am  1  per- 
plexed, and  the  less  do  I  seem  to  succeed.  1  feel  as 
if  it  will  be  long  indeed  before  1  can  write  again  as 
freely  as  here,  and  so  1  am  eager  to  finish  what  I 
have  to  do,  but  I  make  no  progress.  The  '•  Wa(- 
purgis  Night"  alone  gets  on  quickly,  and  I  hope  it 
will  soon  be  accomplished.  Besides,  I  cannot  resist 
every  day  sketching,  that  I  may  carry  away  with  me 
reminiscences  of  my  favourite  haunts.  There  is  still 
much  that  I  wisli  to  see,  so  I  perfectly  well  know 
that  this  month  will  suddenly  come  to  an  end,  and 
much  remain  undone ;  and  indeed  it  is  quite  too 
beautiful  here. 

Home  is  considerably  changed,  and  neither  so  gay 
nor  so  cheerful  as  formerly.*  Almost  all  my  ac- 
quaintances are  gone  ;  the  promenades  and  streets 


*  Romo  disturbances  had  in   tho    meantime   brjkeu  out  in  the 
Ecclesiastical  States,  at  Bologna. 


GERMAN    PAINTERS    AT    ROME.  117 

are  deserted,  the  galleries  closed,  and  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  gain  admittance  into  them.  All  news  from 
without  almost  entirely  fails  us.  (for  we  saw  the 
details  about  Bologna  first  in  the  '  Allgemeine 
Zeitung'  yesterday;)  people  seldom  or  never  congre- 
gate together;  in  fact,  everything  has  subsided 
into  entire  rest;  but  then  the  weather  is  lovely,  and 
no  one  can  deprive  us  of  this  warm,  balmy  atmos- 
phere. Those  who  are  most  to  be  pitied  in  the 
present  state  of  affairs  are  the  Ye  met  ladies,  who 
are  unpleasantly  situated  here.  The  hatred  of  the 
entire  Roman  populace  is.  strangely  enough,  directed 
against  the  French  Pensionaries,  believing  that 
their  influence  alone  could  easily  effect  a  revolution. 
Threatening  anonymous  letters  have  been  repeatedly 
sent  to  Yernet ;  indeed  he  one  day  found  an  armed 
Transteverin  stationed  in  front  of  the  windows  of 
his  studio,  who  however  took  to  flight  when  Yernet 
fetched  his  gun:  and  as  the  ladies  are  now  entirely 
alone,  and  isolated  in  the  villa,  their  family  are 
naturally  very  uneasy.  Still  all  continues  quiet  and 
serene  within  the  city,  and  I  am  quite  convinced  it 
will  remain  so. 

The  German  painters  are  really  more  contemp- 
tible than  I  can  tell  you.  Xot  only  have  they  cut 
off  their  whiskers  and  moustaches,  and  their  long 
hair  and  beards,  openly  declaring  that  as  soon  as  all 
danger  is  at  an  end  they  will  let  them  grow  again, 
but  these  tall  stalwart  fellows  go  home  as  soon  as  it 
is  dark,  lock  themselves  in,  and  discuss  their  fears 
together.  They  call  Horace  Yernet  a  braggart, 


118  MEXDKLSSOIIX'S    LETTERS. 

nnd  yet  he  is  very  different  from  those  miserable 
creatures,  whose  conduct  makes  mo  cordially  despise 
thorn.  Latterly  I  occasionally  visited  some  of  the 
modern  studios.  Thonvaldsen  has  just  finished  a 
statue  in  clay  of  Lord  Byron.  lie  is  seated  amidst 
ancient  ruins,  his  feet  resting  on  the  capital  of  a 
column,  while  he  is  gazing  into  the  distance, 
evidently  about  to  write  something  on  the  tablets 
he  holds  in  his  hand.  He  is  represented  not  in 
Roman  costume,  but  in  a  simple  modern  dress,  and 
I  think  it  looks  well,  and  does  not  destroy  the 
general  effect.  The  statue  has  the  natural  air  and 
easy  pose  so  remarkable  in  all  this  sculptor's  works, 
and  yet  the  poet  looks  sufficiently  gloomy  and 
elegiac,  though  not  affected.  I  must  some  day  write 
you  a  whole  letter  about  the  'Triumph  of  Alex- 
ander,' for  never  did  any  piece  of  sculpture  make 
such  an  impression  on  me ;  I  go  there  every  week, 
and  stand  gazing  at  that  alone,  and  enter  Babylon 
along  with  the  Conqueror.  1  lately  called  on 

A ;  he  has  brought  with  him  some   admirable 

pencil  sketches  from  Naples  and  Sicily,  so  I  should 
be  glad  to  take  some  hints  from  him,  but  I  fear  that 
he  is  a  considerable  exaggerator,  and  does  not 
sketch  faithfully.  His  landscape  of  the  Colosseum, 
at  II.  B.,  is  a  beautiful  romance;  for  I  cannot  say 
that  in  the  original  I  ever  perceived  woods  of  large 
cypresses  and  orange-trees,  or  fountains  or  thickets 
in  the  centre,  extending  to  the  ruins.  Moreover, 
his  moustaches  have  also  disappeared. 

I  have  something  amusing  to  tell  you  in  conclu- 


DISCORDANT    CONCERT.  119 

sion.  I  wish.  0  my  Fanny,  that  as  a  contrast  to 
your  Sunday  harmony  you  had  heard  the  music  we 
perpetrated  last  Sunday  evening.  We  wished  to 
sing  the  Psalms  of  Marcello,  being  Lent,  and  the 
best  dilettanti  consequently  assembled.  A  Papal 
singer  was  in  the  middle,  a  rnaeKt.ro  at  the  piano, 
and  we  sang.  AVhen  a  soprano  solo  came,  all  the 
ladies  pressed  forward,  each  insisting  on  singing  it, 
KT  it  was  executed  as  a  luff/..  The  tenor  by  my  side 
never  alighted  on  the  right  note,  and  rambled  about 
in  the  most  insecure  regions.  When  I  chimed  in  as 
second  tenor,  he  dropped  into  my  part,  and  when  I 
tried  to  assist  him.  lie  seemed  to  think  that  was  my 
original  part,  and  kept  steadily  to  his  own.  The 
Papal  singer  at  one  instant  sang  in  the  soprano 
falsetto,  and  presently  took  the  first  bass;  soon 
after  he  quaked  out  the  all,  and  when  all  that  was 
of  no  avail,  he  smiled  sorrowfully  across  at  me,  and 
we  nodded  mysteriously  to  each  other.  The  ma<-stro, 
i.i  striving  to  set  us  all  right,  repeatedly  lost  his 
own  place,  being  a  bar  behind,  or  one  in  advance, 
and  thus  we  sang  with  the  most  complete  anarchy, 
just  as  we  thought  fit.  Suddenly  came  a  very 
solemn  solo  passage  for  the  bass,  which  nil  attacked 
valiantly,  but  at  the  second  bar  broke  into  a  chorus 
of  loud  laughter,  in  which  we  unanimously  joined, 
8>  the  affair  ended  in  high  good-humour.  The 
p-'ople  who  had  come  as  audience  talked  at  the 
pitch  of  their  voices,  and  then  went  out  and  dis- 
persed. J'Jynard  came  in  and  listened  to  our  music 
for  a  t/mo.)  then  made  a  horrid  grimace,  and  was 


120  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

seen    no  more.    Farewell !    Health  and  happiness 
attend  you  all !  FEIJT 


Rome,  March  I5th,  1831. 

The  letters  of  introduction  that  R sent  me, 

have  been  of  no  use  to  me  here.     L likewise, 

to  whom  I  was  presented  by  Biinscn.  has  not  taken 
the  smallest  notice  of  me,  and  tries  to  look  the. 
other  way  when  we  meet.  I  rather  suspect  the 
man  is  an  aristocrat.  Albani  admitted  me,  so  I 
had  the  honour  of  conversing  for  half  an  hour  with 
a  Cardinal.  After  reading  the  introductory  letter, 
he  asked  me  if  I  was  a  pensioner  of  the  King  ot 
Hanover.  "  No,"  said  I.  He  supposed  that  1  must 
have  seen  St.  Peter's?  "Yes,"  said  I.  As  I  knew 
Meyerbeer,  he  assured  me  that  he  could  not  endure 
his  music;  it  was  too  scientific  for  him;  indeed, 
everything  he  wrote  was  so  learned,  and  so  devoid 
of  melody,  that  you  at  once  saw  that  he  was  a 
German,  and  the  Germans,  mmi  ami.  have  not  the 
most  remote  conception  of  what  melody  is  !  "No.'1 
said  1.  "In  ?//;/  scores."  continued  he,  "allying;  not 
only  the  voices  sing,  but  also  the  first  violin  sings, 
and  the  second  violin  also,  and  the  oboe  sings,  and 
so  it  goes  on,  even  to  the  horns,  and  last  of  all  the 
double-bass  sings  too."  I  was  naturally  desirous,  in 
all  humility,  to  see  some  of  his  music;  he  WHS 
modest,  however,  and  would  show  me  nothing,  but 
he  said  that  wishing  to  make  my  stav  in  Home  a 


M1ZKIEWTCZ.  121 

agreeable  as  possible,  he  hoped  I  would  pay  a  visit 
to  his  villa,  and  I  might  take  as  many  of  my 
friends  with  me  as  I  chose.  It  was  near  such  and 
such  a  place.  I  thanked  him  very  much,  and  sub- 
sequently boasted  considerably  of  this  gracious 
permission  ;  but  presently  discovered  that  this  villa 
is  open  to  the  public,  and  any  one  can  go  there 
who  chooses.  Since  that  time  1  have  heard  no 
more  of  him.  and  as  this  and  some  other  instances 
have  inspired  me  with  respect,  mingled  with  aver- 
sion, towards  the  highest  Roman  circles,  I  resolved 
not  to  deliver  the  letter  to  Gabrielli,  and  was  satis- 
fied by  having  the  whole  Bonaparte  family  pointed 
out  to  me  on  the  promenade,  where  I  met  them 
daily. 

I  think  Mizkicwicz  very  tiresome.  He  possesses 
that  kind  of  indifference  which  bores  both  himself 
and  others,  though  the  ladies  persist  in  designating 
it  melancholy  and  lassitude ;  but  this  makes  it  nc 
better  in  my  eyes.  If  he  looks  at  St.  Peter's,  he  de- 
plores the  times  of  the  hierarchy ;  if  the  sky  is  blue 
and  beautiful,  he  wishes  it  were  dull  and  gloomy;  if 
it  is  gloomy,  he  is  freezing;  if  he  sees  the  Colosseum, 
he  wishes  he  had  lived  at  that  period.  I  wonder 
what  sort  of  a  figure  he  would  have  made  in  the  days 
of  Titus  ! 

Yon  inquire  about  Horace  Yernet,  and  this  is, 
indeed,  a  pleasant  theme.  I  believe  I  may  say  that 
I  have  learned  something  from  him,  and  every  one 
may  do  the  same.  He  produces  with  incredible 
facility  and  freshness.  When  a  form  -neets  his  eye 
11 


122  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

which  touches  his  feelings,  he  instantly  adopts  it, 
and  while  others  are  deliberating  whether  it  can  be 
called  beautiful,  and  praising  or  censuring,  he  has 
long  completed  his  work,  entirely  deranging  our 
ajsthetical  standard.  Though  this  facility  cannot  be 
acquired,  still  its  principle  is  admirable,  and  the 
serenity  which  springs  from  it,  and  the  energy  it 
calls  forth  in  working,  nothing  else  can  replace. 

Among  the  alleys  of  evergreen  trees,  where  at  this 
season  of  blossoms  the  fragrance  is  so  charming,  in 
the  midst  of  the  shrubberies  and  gardens  of  the  Villa 
Medicis,  stands  a  small  house,  in  which  as  you  ap- 
proach you  invariably  hear  a  tumult, — shouting  and 
wrangling,  or  a  piece  executed  on  a  trumpet,  or  the 
barking  of  dogs  ;  this  is  Vernet's  atelier.  The  most 
picturesque  disorder  everywhere  prevails ;  gun?,  a 
hunting-horn,  a  monkey,  palettes,  a  couple  of  dead 
hares  or  rabbits;  the  walls  covered  with  pictures, 
finished  and  unfinished.  "  The  Investiture  of  the 
National  Cockade"  (an  eccentric  picture  which  does 
not  please  me),  portraits  recently  begun  of  Thor- 
waldsen,  Eynard,  Latour-Maubourg,  some  horses,  a 
sketch  of  Judith,  and  studies  for  it;  the  portrait  of 
the  Pope,  a  couple  of  Moorish  heads,  bagpipers, 
Papal  soldiers,  my  unworthy  self,  Cain  and  Abel, 
and  last  of  all  a  drawing  of  the  interior  of  the  place 
itself,  all  hang  up  in  his  studio. 

Lately  his  hands  were  quite  full,  owing  to  the 
number  of  portraits  bespoken  from  him  ;  but  in  the 
street  he  saw  one  of  the  Campagna  peasants,  who 
are  armed  aud  mounted  by  Government,  and  ride 


HORACE    VER.VET.  123 

about  Rome.  The  singular  costume  caught  the 
artist's  eye.  and  next  day  he  began  a  picture  repre- 
senting a  similar  peasant,  sitting  on  his  horse  in  bad 
weather  in  the  Campagna,  and  seizing  his  gun  ill 
order  to  take  aim  at  .some  one  with  it ;  in  the  distance 
are  visible  a  small  troop  of  soldiers,  and  the  desolate 
plain.  The  minute  details  of  the  weapon,  where  the 
peasant  peeps  through  the  soldier's  uniform,  the 
wretched  horse  and  its  shabby  trappings,  the  dis- 
comfort prevalent  throughout,  and  the  Italian 
phlegm  in  the  bearded  fellow,  make  a  charming  little 
picture  ;  and  no  one  can  help  envying  him,  who  sees 
the  real  delight  with  which  his  brush  traverses  the 
stretched  canvas,  at  one  moment  putting  in  a  little 
rivulet,  and  a  couple  of  soldiers,  and  a  button  on  the 
saddle;  then  lining  the  soldier's  grent-eoat  with 
green.  Numbers  of  people  come  to  look  on  :  during 
my  first  sitting  twenty  persons,  at  least,  arrived  one 

after  the  other.     Countess  E asked  him  to  allow 

her  to  be  present  when  he  was  at  work  ;  but  when  he 
darted  on  it  as  a  hungry  man  does  on  food,  her 
amazement  was  great.  The  whole  family  are,  as  I 
told  you,  good  people,  and  when  old  Charles  talks 
about  his  father  Joseph,  you  must  feel  respect  for 
them,  and  I  maintain  that  they  are  noble.  Good-bye, 
for  it  is  late,  and  I  must  send  my  letter  to  the  Post. 

FELII. 


124  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Rome,  March  29th,  1831. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Holy  Week.  To-morrow  for 
the  first  time  I  am  to  hear  the  Miserere,  and  while 
you  last  Sunday  performed  "  The  Passion,"  the  Car- 
dinals and  all  the  priesthood  here  received  twisted 
palms  and  olive-branches.  The  Stabat  Mater  of 
Palestrina  was  sung,  and  there  was  a  grand  proces- 
sion. My  work  has  got  on  badly  during  the  last 
few  days.  Spring  is  in  all  her  bloom  ;  a  genial  blue 
sky  without,  such  as  we  at  most  only  dream  of, 
and  a  journey  to  Naples  in  my  every  thought ;  so 

even  a  quiet  time  to  write  is  not  to  be  found.     C , 

who  is  usually  a  cool  follow,  has  written  me  such  a 
glowing  letter  from  Naples  !  The  most  prosaic  mer 
become  poetical  when  they  speak  of  it.  The  finest 
season  of  the  year  in  Italy,  is  from  the  15th  of  April 
to  the  15th  of  May.  Who  can  wonder  that  I  find  it 
impossible  to  return  to  my  misty  Scotch  mood  ?  I 
have  therefore  laid  aside  the  Scotch  symphony  for 
the  present,  but  hope  to  write  out  the  "  Walpurgis 
Night"  here.  I  shall  manage  to  do  so  if  I  work  hard 
to-day  and  to-morrow,  and  if  we  have  bad  weather, 
for  really  a  fine  day  is  too  great  a  temptation.  As 
soon  as  an  impediment  occurs,  I  hope  to  find  some 
resource  in  the  open  air,  so  I  go  out,  and  think  of 
anything  and  everything  but  my  composition,  and  do 
nothing  but  lounge  about,  and  when  the  church  bells 
begin  to  ring,  it  is  the  Ave  Maria  already.  All  [ 
want  now  is  a  short  overture.  If  1  can  accomplish 
this,  the  thing  is  complete,  and  I  can  write  it  out  in  a 


FRENCH    ACQUAINTANCES.  125 

couple  of  days.  Then  I  have  done  -with  music,  and 
leaving  all  music-paper  here,  I  shall  go  off  to  Naples, 
where,  please  God.  I  mean  to  do  nothing. 

Two  French  friends  of  mine  have  tempted  me  to 
fliiner  with  them  a  good  deal  of  late.  When  they 
are  together,  it  is  either  a  perpetual  tragedy,  or 

comedy, — as  you  will.  Y distorts  everything, 

without  a  spark  of  talent,  always  groping  in  the 
dark,  but  esteeming  himself  the  creator  of  a  new 
world;  writing  moreover  the  most  frightful  things, 
and  yet  dreaming  and  thinking  of  nothing  but 
Beethoven,  Schiller,  and  Goethe  ;  a  victim  at  the 
same  time  to  the  most  boundless  vanity,  and  looking 
down  condescendingly  on  Mozart  and  Haydn,  so 
that  all  his  enthusiasm  seems  to  me  very  doubtful. 
Z — —  has  been  toiling  for  three  months  at  a  little 
rondo  on  a  Portuguese  theme  ;  he  arranges  neatly 
and  brilliantly,  ami  according  to  rule,  and  he  now 
intends  to  set  about  composing  six  waltzes,  and  is 
ih  a  state  of  perfect  ecstasy  if  1  will  only  play  him 
over  a  number  of  Vienna  waltzes,  lie  has  a  high 
esteem  for  Beethoven,  but  also  for  Rossini  and  for 
Bellini,  and  no  doubt  for  Auber, — in  short,  for 
everybody.  Then  my  turn  comes  to  be  praised, 

who  would  be  only  too  glad  to  murder  Y ,  till 

he  chances  to  eulogize  Gluck,  when  I  can  quite 
agive  witli  him.  I  like  nevertheless  to  walk  about 
with  these  two,  for  they  are  the  only  musicians 
here,  and  both  very  pleasant,  amiable  persons.  All 
this  forms  an  amusing  contrast. 

You  say,  dear  mother,  that  Y must  have  a 

11* 


126  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

fixed  aim  in  his  art ;  but  this  is  far  from  being  my 
opinion.  I  believe  he  wishes  to  be  married,  and  is 
in  fact  worse  than  the  other,  because  he  is  by  far 
the  most  affected  of  the  two.  I  really  cannot  stand 
his  obtrusive  enthusiasm,  and  the  gloomy  despond- 
ency he  assumes  before  ladies, — this  stereotyped 
genius  in  black  and  white ;  and  if  he  were  not  a 
Frenchman,  (and  it  is  always  pleasant  to  associate 
with  them,  as  they  have  invariably  something  inter- 
esting to  say.)  it  would  be  beyond  endurance.  A 
week  hence,  I  shall  probably  write  you  my  last 
letter  from  Rome,  and  then  you  shall  hear  of  me 
from  Naples.  It  is  still  quite  uncertain  whether  I 
go  to  Sicily  or  not;  I  almost  think  not.  as  in  any 
event  I  must  have  recourse  to  a  steamboat,  and  it 
is  not  yet  settled  that  one  is  to  go. 

In  haste,  yours,  FELIX. 


Rome,  April  4th,  1831. 

The  Holy  Week  is  over,  and  my  passport  to 
Naples  prepared.  My  room  begins  to  look  empty, 
and  my  winter  in  Rome  is  now  among  my  reminis- 
cences, of  the  past.  I  intend  1o  leave  this  in  a  few 
days,  and  my  next  letter  (I).  V.)  shall  be  from 
Naples.  Interesting  and  amusing  as  the  winter  in 
Rome  has  been,  it  has  closed  with  a  truly  memora- 
ble week ;  for  what  I  have  seen  and  heard  i'ar 
surpassed  my  expectations,  and  being  the  conclu- 
sion, I  will  endeavour  in  this,  my  last  letter  from 


CEREMONIES    OF    THE    HOI.Y    WEEK.  12 1 

Rome,  to  give  you  a  full  description  of  it  all.  Peo- 
ple have  often  both  zealously  praised  and  censured 
the  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week,  and  have  yet 
omitted,  as  is  often  the  case,  the  chief  point,  namely 
its  perfection  as  a  complete  whole.  My  father  may 
probably  remember  the  description  of  Mdlle.  de 

R ,  who  after  all  only  did  what  most  people  do, 

who  write  or  talk  about  music  and  art.  when  in  a 
hoarse  and  prosaic  voice  she  attempted  at  dinner  to 
give  us  some  idea  of  the  fine  clear  Papal  choir. 
Many  others  have  given  the  mere  music,  and  been 
dissatisfied,  because  external  adjuncts  are  required 
to  produce  the  full  effect.  Those  persons  may  be 
in  the  right;  still  so  long  as  these  indispensable 
externals  are  there,  and  especially  in  such  entire 
perfection,  so  long  will  it  impress  others;  and  just 
as  I  feel  convinced  that  place,  time,  order,  the  vast 
crowd  of  human  beings  awaiting  in  the  most  pro- 
found silence  the  moment  for  the  music  to  begin, 
contribute  largely  to  the  effect,  so  do  I  contemn  the 
idea  of  deliberately  separating  what  ought  in  fact  to 
be  indivisible,  and  this  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting 
a  certain  portion,  which  may  thus  be  depreciated. 
That  man  must  be  despicable  indeed,  on  whom 
the  devotion  and  reverence  of  a  vast  assemblage 
did  not  make  a  corresponding  impression  of  devo- 
tion and  reverence,  even  if  they  were  worshipping 
the  Golden  Calf;  let  him  alone  destroy  this,  who 
can  replace  it  by  something  better. 

Whether   one   person   repeats    it    from   another, 
whether  it  comes  up  to  its  great  reputation,  or  ia 


128  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

merely  the  effect  of  the  imagination,  is  quite  the 
same  thing.  It  suffices  that  we  have  a  perfect 
totality,  which  has  exercised  the  most  powerful  in- 
fluence for  centuries  past,  and  still  exercises  it,  and 
therefore  I  reverence  it,  as  I  do  every  species  of  real 
perfection.  I  leave  it  to  theologians  to  pronounce 
on  its  religious  influence,  for  the  various  opinions  on 
that  point  are  of  no  great  value.  There  is  more  to 
be  considered  than  the  mere  ceremonies  :  for  me  it 
is  sufficient,  as  I  already  said,  that  in  any  sphere  the 
object  should  be  fully  carried  out,  so  far  as  ability 
will  permit,  with  fidelity  and  conscientiousness,  to 
call  forth  my  respect  and  sympathy.  Thus  you  must 
uot  expect  from  me  a  formal  critique  on  the  singing, 
as  to  whether  they  intoned  correctly  or  incorrectly, 
in  tune  or  out  of  tune,  or  whether  the  compositions 
are  fine.  1  would  rather  strive  to  show  you,  that  as 
a  whole  the  affair  cannot  fail  to  make  a  solemn  im- 
pression, and  that  everything  contributes  to  this 
result,  and  as  last  week  I  enjoyed  music,  forms,  and 
ceremonies,  without  severing  them,  revelling  in  the 
perfect  whole,  so  I  do  not  intend  to  separate  them 
in  this  letter.  The  technical  part,  to  which  I  natur- 
ally paid  particular  attention,  I  mean  to  detail  more 
minutely  to  Zelter. 

The  firs'  ceremony  was  on  Palm  Sunday,  when 
the  concourse  of  people  was  so  great,  that  I  could 
not  make  my  way  through  the  crowd  to  my  usual 
place  on  what  is  called  the  Prelates'  Bench,  but  was 
forced  to  remain  among  the  Guard  of  Honour, 
where  indeed  I  had  a  verv  good  view  of  the  solemui- 


MUPIP  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.  129 

ties,  but  could  not  follow  the  singing  properly,  as 
they  pronounced  the  wurds  very  indistinctly,  and  on 
that  day  I  had  no  book.  The  result  was  that  on  this 
first  day.  the  various  aniiphmis.  (jospels.  and  Psalms, 
and  the  mode  of  chanting,  instead  of  reading,  which 
is  employed  here  in  its  primitive  form,  made  the 
riost  confused  and  singular  impression  on  me.  I 
had  no  clear  conception  what  rule  they  followed 
with  regard  to  the  various  cadences.  I  took  con- 
siderable pains  gradually  to  discover  their  method, 
and  succeeded  so  well,  that  at  the  end  of  the  Holy 
Week  I  could  have  sung  with  them.  I  thus  also 
escaped  the  extreme  weariness,  so  universally  com- 
plained of  during  the  endless  Psalms  before  the 
Miserere  ;  for  1  quickly  detected  any  variety  in 
the  monotony,  and  when  perfectly  assured  of  any  par- 
ticular cadence,  I  instantly  wrote  it  down;  so  I  made 
out  by  degrees  (which  indeed  I  deserved)  the  melodies 
of  eiii'ht  Psalms.  I  also  noted  down  the  antiphons, 
etc..  and  was  thus  incessantly  occupied  and  interested. 
The  first  Sunday,  however,  as  I  already  told  you, 
[  could  not  make  it  all  out  satisfactorily :  I  only 
knew  that  the  choir  sang  "  Hosanna  in  excelsis,"  and 
intoned  various  hymns,  while  twisted  palms  were 
offered  to  the  Pope,  which  he  distributed  among  the 
Cardinals.  These  palms  are  long  branches  decorated 
with  buttons,  crosses,  and  crowns,  all  entirely  made 
of  dried  palm-leaves,  which  makes  them  look  like 
gold.  The  Cardinals,  who  are  seated  in  the  Chapel 
in  the  form  of  a  quadrangle, with  the  abbati  at  their 
feet,  now  advance  each  in  turn  to  receive  their 


130  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

palms,  with  which  they  return  to  their  places;  then 
come  the  bishops,  monks,  abbati.  and  all  the  other 
orders  of  the  priesthood;  the  Papal  singers,  the 
knights,  and  others,  who  receive  olive-branches 
entwined  with  palm-leaves.  This  makes  a  long1  pro- 
cession, during  which  the;  choir  continues  to  sing 
unremittingly.  The  abbati  hold  the  long  palms  of 
their  cardinals  like  the  lances  of  sentinels,  slanting 
them  on  the  ground  before  them,  and  at  this  moment 
there  is  a  brilliancy  of  colour  in  the  chapel  that  I 
never  before  saw  at  any  ceremony  .  There  were 
the  Cardinals  in  their  gold  embroidered  robes  and 
red  caps,  and  the  violet  abbati  in  front  of  them, 
with  golden  palms  in  their  hands,  and  further  in 
advance,  the  gaudy  servants  of  the  Pope,  the  Greek 
priests,  the  patriarchs  in  the  most  gorgeous  attire  ; 
the  Capuchins  with  long  white  beards,  and  all  the 
other  religious  Orders;  then  again  the  Swiss,  in 
their  popinjay  uniforms,  all  carrying  green  olive- 
branches,  while  singing  is  going  on  the  whole  time  ; 
though  certainly  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  distinguish 
what  is  being  sung,  yet  the  mere  sound  is  sufficient 
to  delight  the  car. 

The  Pope's  throne  is  then  carried  in,  on  which  he 
is  elevated  in  all  procossions,  and  where  I  saw  Pius 
VI I J.  enthroned  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  (cnlc  the 
'  Ileliodorus  '  of  Raphael,  where  he  is  portrayed) 
The  Cardinals,  two  and  two,  with  their  palms,  head 
the  procession,  and  the  folding  doors  of  the  chapel 
being  thrown  open,  it  slowly  defiles  through  them. 
The  singing,  which  has  hitherto  incessantly  prevailed, 


Mrsir    OF    THE    HOLY    WEEK.  131 

n  clement,  becomes  fainter  and  fainter,  for  the 


only  indistinctly  heard,  the  sound  dying  away  in  the 
distance.  Then  a  choir  in  the  chapel  bursts  forth 
with  a  query,  to  which  the  distant  one  breathes  a 
faint  response;  and  so  it  goes  on  for  a  time,  till  the 
procession  again  draws  near,  and  the  choirs  reunite. 
Let  them  sing  how  or  what  they  please,  this  cannot 
fail  to  produce  a  fine  effect;  and  though  it  is  quite 
true  that  nothing  can  be  more  monotonous,  and  even 
devoid  of  form,  than  the  hymns  all'  unisono,  being 
without  any  proper  connection,  and  sung  fortissimo 
throughout,  still  I  appeal  to  the  impression  that  as 
a  ichol1'.  it  must  make  on  every  one.  After  the  pro- 
cession returns,  the  Gospel  is  chanted  in  the  most 
singular  tone,  and  is  succeeded  by  the  Mass.  I  must 
not  omit  here  to  make  mention  of  my  favourite  mo- 
ment ;  I  mean  the  Credo.  The  priest  takes  his  place 
for  the  first  time  in  the  centre,  before  the  altar,  and 
after  a  short  pause,  intones  in  his  hoarse  old  voice 
the  Credo  of  Sebastian  Bach.  When  he  has  fin- 
ished, the  priests  stand  up,  the  Cardinals  leave 
their  seats,  and  advance  into  the  middle  of  the 
chapel,  where  they  form  a  circle,  all  repeating  the 
continuation  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Patrem  omnipoten- 
tem,"  etc.  The  choir  then  chimes  in,  singing  the 
same  words.  When  I  for  the  first  time  heard  my 
well-known 


Cre    •    da          in         a    •     num        De     •   um 


132  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

and  all  the  grave  monks  round  me  began  to  recite 
in  loud  and  eager  tones,  I  felt  quite  excited,  for  this 
is  the  moment  I  still  like  the  best  of  all.  After 
the  ceremony,  Santini  made  me  a  present  of  his 
olive-branch,  which  1  carried  in  my  hand  the  whole 
day  when  I  was  walking  about,  for  the  weather  was 
beautiful.  The  Stabat  Mater  which  succeeds  the 
Credo,  made  much  less  effect;  they  sang  it  incor- 
rectly and  out  of  tune,  and  likewise  curtailed  it 
considerably.  The  'Sing  Akademie'  executes  it  in- 
finitely better.  There  is  nothing  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday ;  but  on  Wednesday,  at  half-past  four,  the 
nocturns  begin. 

The  Psalms  are  sung  in  alternate  verses  by  two 
choirs,  though  invariably  by  one  class  of  voices, 
basses  or  tenors.  For  an  hour  and  a  half,  therefore, 
nothing  but  the  most  monotonous  music  is  heard  ; 
the  Psalms  arc  only  once  interrupted  by  the  Lamen- 
tations, and  this  is  the  first  moment  when,  after  a 
long  time,  a  complete  chord  is  given.  This  chord 
is  very  softly  intoned,  and  the  whole  piece  sung 
pianissimo,  while  the  Psalms  are  shouted  out  as  much 
as  possible,  and  always  upon  one  note,  and  the  words 
uttered  with  the  utmost  rapidity,  a  cadence  occur- 
ring at  the  end  of  each  verse,  which  defines  the 
different  characteristics  of  the  various  melodies. 
It  is  not  therefore  surprising  that  the  mere  soft 
sound  (in  G  major)  of  the  first  Lamentation,  should 
produce  so  touching  an  effect.  Once  more  the 
single  tone  recommences;  a  wax  light  is  extin- 
guished at  the  end  of  each  Psalm,  so  that  in  the 


MUSIC  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.         133 

course  of  an  hour  and  a  half  the  fifteen  lights  round 
the  altar  are  all  out ;  six  large-sized  candles  still 
burn  in  the  vestibule.  The  whole  strength  of  the 
choir,  with  alti  and  soprani,  etc.,  intone  fortissimo 
and  unisono,  a  new  melody,  the  "  Canticum  Zacha- 
riai,"  in  D  minor,  singing  it  slowly  and  solemnly  in 
the  deepening  gloom  ;  the  lust  remaining  lights  are 
then  extinguished.  The  Pope  leaves  his  throne, 
and  fulls  on  his  knees  before  the  altar,  while  all 
around  do  the  same,  repeating  a  paternoster  sub 
stlentio;  that  is,  a  pause  ensues,  during  which  you 
know  that  each  Catholic  present  says  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  arid  immediately  afterwards  the  Miserere 
begins  pianissimo  thus  : — • 

gPP 


This  is  to- me  the  most  sublime  moment  of  the 
whole.  You  can  easily  picture  to  yourself  what 
follows,  but  not  this  commencement.  The  continu- 
ation, which  is  the  Miserere  of  Allegri.  is  a  simple 
sequence  of  chords,  grounded  either  on  tradition, 
or  what  appears  to  me  much  more  probable,  merely 
embellishments,  introduced  by  some  clever  maestro 
for  the  fine  voices  at  his  disposal,  and  especially  for 
a  very  high  soprano.  These  embellimenti  always 
12 


/,  MENDELSSOHNS  LETTERS. 

recur  on  the  same  chords,  and  as  the}7'  are  cleverly 
constructed,  and  beautifully  adapted  for  the  voice, 
it  is  invariably  pleasing-  to  hear  them  repeated.  J 
could  not  discover  anything1  unearthly  or  mysterious 
in  the  music;  indeed,  I  am  perfectly  contented  that 
its  beauty  should  be  earthly  and  comprehensible. 
I  refer  you.  dearest  Fanny,  to  my  letter  to  Zelter. 
On  the  first  day  they  sang  Baini's  Miserere. 

On  Thursday,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
solemnities  recommenced,  and  lasted  till  one  o'clock. 
There  was  High  Mass,  and  afterwards  a  procession. 
The  Pope  conferred  his  benediction  from  the  Loggia 
of  the  Quirinal,  and  washed  the  feet  of  thirteen 
priests,  who  are  supposed  to  represent  the  pilgrims, 
and  were  seated  in  a  row,  wearing  white  gowns  and 
white  caps,  and  who  afterwards  dine.  The  crowd 
of  English  ladies  was  extraordinary,  and  the  whole 
affair  repugnant  to  my  feelings.  The  Psalms  began 
again  in  the  afternoon,  and  lasted  on  this  occasion 
till  half  past  seven.  Some  portions  of  the  Miserere 
were  taken  from  Baini,  but  the  greater  part  were 
Allegri's.  It  was  almost  dark  in  the  chapel  when 
the  Miserere  commenced.  I  clambered  up  a  tall 
ladder  standing  there  by  chance,  and  so  I  had  the 
whole  chapel  crowded  with  people,  and  the  kneeling 
Pope  and  his  Cardinals,  and  the  music,  beneath  me. 
It  had  a  splendid  effect.  On  Friday  forenoon  the 
chapel  was  stripped  of  every  decoration,  and  the 
Pope  and  Cardinals  in  mourning.  The  history  of 
the  Passion,  according  to  St.  John,  the  music  by 
Vittoria,  was  sung- ;  then  the  Improperia  of  Pales- 


CEREMONIES    OF    THE    HOLT    WEEK.  135 

trina,  during-  which  the  Pope  and  all  the  others, 
taking  off  their  shoes,  advance  to  the  cross  and 
adore  it.  In  the  evening  Baini's  Miserere  was 
j.-Lven,  which  they  sang  infinitely  the  best. 

Early  un  Saturday,  in  the  baptistery  of  the  Lateran, 
Heathens.  Jews,  and  Mahomedaus  were  baptized,  all 
represented  by  a  little  child,  who  screeched  the  whole 
time,  and  subsequently  seme  young  priests  received 
consecratii  n  fir  the  first  time.  On  Sunday  the  Pope 
himself  performed  High  .Muss  in  the  Quinual.  and 
subsequently  pronounced  his  benedictii.ii  en  the 
people,  and  then  all  was  over.  It  is  now  Saturday, 
the  Oth  of  April,  and  to-morrow  at  an  early  hour  I 
get  into  a  carriage  rind  set  oil'  f'rr  Naples,  where  a 
new  style  of  beauty  awaits  me.  You  will  perceive  by 
the  end  of  this  letter  that  I  write  in  haste.  This  is 
my  last  day.  and  a  great  deal  yet  to  be  d<  ne.  J  do 
not  therefore  finish  my  letter  to  Zelter.  but  will  send 
it  from  Naples.  I  wish  my  descriptkn  to  be  correct, 
and  my  approaching  journey  distracts  my  attention 
sadly.  Thus  I  am  oil'  to  Naples  ;  the  weather  is  clear- 
ing up.  and  the  sun  shining,  which  it  has  iii.t  d<  ue  for 
some  days  past.  My  passport  is  prepared,  the  car- 
riage ordered,  and  1  am  looking  forward  to  the  months 
of  spring.  Adieu!  FELIX. 


Xa;!e-,  A;:ril  I  3th,   i^-^i. 
Dear  Rebecca. 

This  must  stand  in  liou  of  a  birthday  letter  :  may 
it  wear  a  holiday  aspect  f.;r  you  1     It  arrivi-s  late  iii 


136  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

the  day,  but  with  equally  sincere  good  wishes.  Youi 
birthday  itself  I  passed  in  a  singular  but  delightfiu 
manner,  though  I  could  not  write,  having  neither 
pens  nor  ink  ;  in  fact,  I  was  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
Pontine  Marshes.  May  the  ensuing  year  bring  you 
every  happiness,  and  may  we  meet  somewhere  !  If 
you  were  thinking  of  me  on  that  day.  our  thoughts 
must  have  met  either  on  the  Brenner  or  at  Inspruck  ; 
for  I  was  constantly  thinking  of  you.  Even  without 
looking  at  the  date  of  this  letter,  you  will  at  once 
perceive  by  its  tone  that  I  am  in  Naples.  I  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  compass  one  serious  quiet  reflection. 
there  is  everywhere  such  jovial  life  here,  inviting  you 
to  do  nothing,  and  to  think  of  nothing,  and  even  the 
example  of  so  many  thousand  people  has  an  irresisti- 
ble influence.  I  do  not  indeed  intend  that  this  should 
continue,  but  I  see  plainly  that  it  must  go  on  for  the 
first  few  days.  I  stand  for  hours  on  my  balcony, 
gazing  at  Vesuvius  and  the  Bay. 

But  I  must  now  endeavour  to  resume  my  old  de- 
scriptive style,  or  my  materials  will  accumulate  so 
much  that  I  shall  become  confused,  and  I  fear  you 
may  not  be  able  to  follow  me  properly.  So  much 
that  is  novel  crowds  on  me,  that  a  journal  would  be 
requisite  to  detail  to  you  my  life  and  my  state  of  ex- 
citement. So  I  bejjin  by  acknowledging  that  I  deeply 
regretted  leaving  Home.  My  life  there  was  so  quiet, 
and  yet  so  full  of  interest,  having  made  many  kind 
and  friendly  acquaintances,  with  whom  1  had  become 
so  domesticated,  that  the  last  days  of  my  stay,  with 
all  their  discomforts  and  perpetual  running  about, 


FROM    ROME    TO    NAPLES.  137 

seemed  doubly  odious.  The  last  evening  I  went  to 
Vernet's  to  thank  him  for  my  portrait,  which  is  now 
finished,  and  to  take  leave  of  him.  "We  had  some 
music,  talked  politics,  and  played  chess,  and  then  I 
went  down  the  Monte  Pincio  to  my  own  house, 
packed  up  my  thing's,  and  the  next  morning  drove 
off  with  my  travelling  companions.  As  1  gazed  out 
of  the  cabriolet  at  the  scenery.  1  could  dream  to  my 
heart's  desire.  When  \v<-  arrived  at  our  night  quar- 
ters, we  all  went  out  walking.  The  two  days  glided 
past  more  like  a  pleasure  excursion  than  a  journey. 

The  road  from  Home  to  Naples  is  indeed  the 
most  luxuriant  that  I  know,  and  the  whole  mode  of 
travelling  most  agreeable.  You  fly  through  the 
plain;  fur  a  very  slight  gratuity  the  postilions  gallop 
their  horses  like  mad,  which  is  very  advisable  in 
the  Marshes.  If  you  wish  to  contemplate  the 
scenery,  you  have  only  to  abstain  from  offering  any 
gratuity,  and  you  are  soon  driven  slowly  enough. 
The  road  from  Albano,  by  Ariccia  and  Genzano,  as 
far  as  Yelletri,  runs  between  hills,  and  is  shaded  by 
trees  of  every  kind  ;  uphill  and  downhill,  through 
avenues  of  elms,  past  monasteries  and  shrines.  On 
one  side  is  the  Campagna,  with  its  heather,  and  its 
bright  hues;  beyond  comes  the  sea,  glittering  charm- 
ingly in  the  sunshine,  and  above,  the  clearest  sky ; 
for  since  Sunday  morning  the  weather  has  been 

*/  O 

glorious. 

"Well !  we  drove  into  Velletri,  our  night  quarters, 
where  a  great  Church  festival  was  going  on.    Hand- 
some women  with  primitive  faces  were  pacing  the 
12* 


138  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

alleys  in  groups,  and  men  were  standing  together 
wrapped  in  cloaks,  in  the  street.  The  church  was 
decorated  with  garlands  of  green  leaves,  and  as  we 
drove  past  it  we  heard  the  sounds  of  a  double 
bass  and  some  violins ;  fireworks  were  prepared  in 
the  square  ;  the  sun  went  down  clear  and  serene, 
and  the  Pontine  Marshes,  with  their  thousand  col- 
ours, and  the  rocks  rearing  their  heads  one  by  one 
against  the  horizon,  indicated  the  course  we  were 
to  pursue  on  the  following  day.  After  supper  I 
resolved  to  go  out  again  for  a  short  time,  and  dis- 
covered a  kind  of  illumination;  the  streets  were 
swarming  with  people,  and  when  I  at,  last  came  to 
the  spot  where  the  church  stood,  I  saw,  on  turning 
the  corner,  that  the  whole  street  had  burning 
torches  on  each  side,  and  in  the  middle  the  people 
were  walking  up  and  down,  crowding  together,  and 
pleased  to  see  each  other  so  distinctly  at  night.  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  a  pretty  sight  it  was.  The 
concourse  was  greatest  before  the  church;  1  pressed 
forward  into  it  along  with  the  rest.  The  little 
building  was  filled  with  people  kneeling,  adoring 
the  Host,  which  was  exposed;  no  one  spoke  a  word, 
nor  was  there  any  music.  This  stillness,  the  lighted 
church,  and  the  many  kneeling  women  with  white 
handkerchiefs  on  their  heads,  and  white  gowns,  had 
a  striking  effect.  When  I  left  the  church  a  shrewd, 
handsome  Italian  boy  explained  the  whole  festival, 
assuring  me  that  it  would  have  been  far  finer  had 
it  not  been  for  the  recent  disturbances,  for  they  had 
been  the  cause  of  depriving  the  people  of  the  horse- 


THE    PONTINE    MARSHES.  139 

races,  and  barrels  of  pitch,  etc.,  and  on  this  account 
it  was  unlucky  that  the   Austrians  had  not  come 

sooner. 

The  following  morning,  at  six  o'clock,  we  pursued 
our  way  through  the  Pontine  Marshes.  It  is  a  spe- 
cies of  Bergstrasse.  You  drive  through  a  straight 
avenue  of  trees  along  a  plain.  On  one  side  of  the 
avenue  is  a  continued  chain  of  hills,  on  the  other 
the  Marshes.  They  are,  however,  covered  with 
innumerable  flowers,  which  smell  very  sweet;  but 
in  the  long-run  this  becomes  very  stupefying,  and  I 
distinctly  felt  the  oppression  of  the  atmosphere,  in 
spite  of  the  tine  weather.  A  canal  runs  along 
beside  the  chauss£e,  constructed  by  the  orders  of 
Pius  YI.  to  form  a  conduit  for  the  marshes,  where 
we  saw  a  number  of  buffaloes  wallowing,  their  heads 
emerging  out  of  the  water,  and  apparently  enjoying 
themselves.  The  straight,  level  road  has  a  singular 
appearance.  You  see  the  chain  of  hills  at  the  end 
of  the  avenue  when  you  come  to  the  first  station, 
and  again  at  the  second  and  third,  the  only  differ- 
ence being  that  as  you  advance  so  many  miles 
nearer,  the  hills  loom  gradually  larger.  Terracina, 
which  is  situated  exactly  at  the  end  of  this  avenue, 
is  invisible  till  you  come  quite  close  to  it.  On 
making  a  sudden  turn  to  the  left,  round  the  corner 
of  a  rock,  the  whole  expanse  of  the  sea  lies  before 
you.  Citron-gardens,  and  palms,  and  a  variety  of 
plants  of  Southern  growth,  clothe  the  declivity  iii 
front  of  the  town;  towers  appearing  above  the 
thickets,  and  the  harbour  projecting  into  the  sea. 


140  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

To  me,  the  finest  object  in  nature  is,  and  always  will 
be,  the  ocean.  I  love  it  almost  more  than  the  sky. 
Nothing  in  Naples  made  a  more  enchanting  impres- 
sion on  my  mind  than  the  sea,  and  I  always  feel 
happy  when  I  see  before  me  the  spacious  surface  of 
waters. 

The  South,  properly  speaking,  begins  at  Tcrracina. 
This  is  another  land,  and  every  plant  and  every 
bush  reminds  you  of  it.  Above  all,  the  two  mighty 
ridges  of  hills  delighted  me,  between  which  the  road 
runs ;  they  were  totally  devoid  of  bushes  or  trees, 
but  clothed  entirely  with  masses  of  golden  wall- 
flowers, so  that  they  had  a  bright  yellow  hue,  and 
the  fragrance  was  almost  too  strong.  There  is  a 
great  want  of  grass  and  large  trees.  The  old  rob- 
bers' nests  of  Fondi  and  Itri  looked  very  piratical 
and  gloomy.  The  houses  are  built  against  the  walls 
of  the  rocks,  and  there  are  likewise  some  large  towers 
of  the  date  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Many  sentinels  and 
posts  were  stationed  on  the  tops  of  the  hills  ;  but  we 
made  out  our  journey  without  any  adventure.  "We 
remained  all  night  in  Mola  di  (Jaeta;  there  we  saw 
the  renowned  balcony  whence  you  look  over  orange 
and  citron  groves  to  the  blue  sea.  with  Vesuvius  and 
the  islands  in  the  far  distance.  This  was  on  the  llth 
of  April.  As  1  had  been  celebrating  your  birthday 
all  day  long  in  my  own  thoughts,  1  could  not  in  the 
evening  resist  informing  my  companions  that  it  was 
your  birthday;  so  your  health  was  drunk  again  and 
again.  An  old  Englishman,  who  was  of  the  party, 
wished  me  a  "  happy  return  to  my  sister."  I  emptied 


MOLA   DI    OAETA.  141 

the  glass  to  your  health,  and  thought  of  you.     EC- 
main  unchanged  till  we  meet  again. 

"With  such  thoughts  in  my  head,  I  went  in  the 
evening  to  the  citron-garden,  close  to  the  sea-shore, 
and  listened  to  the  waves  rolling  in  from  afar,  and 
breaking  on  the  shore,  and  sometimes  gently  rippling 
and  splashing.  It  was  indeed  a  heavenly  night. 
Among  a  thousand  other  thoughts,  Urillparzer's 
poem  recurred  to  my  memory,  which  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  set  to  music  ;  for  which  reason,  I  suppose, 
Fanny  has  composed  a  charming  melody  on  it;  but  I 
do  not  jest  when  I  say  that  I  sang  the  song  over  re- 
peatedly to  myself,  for  I  was  standing  on  the  very 
spot  lie  describes.  The  sea  had  subsided,  and  was 
now  calm,  and  at  rest ;  this  was  the  first  song.  The 
second  followed  next  day,  for  the  sea  was  like  a 
meadow  or  pure  ether  as  you  gazed  at  it,  and  pretty 
Momen  nodded  their  heads,  and  so  did  olives  and 
cypresses  ;  but  they  were  all  equally  brown,  so  I  re- 
in-lined in  a  poetic  mood. 

"What  is  it  that  shines  through  the  leaves,  and 
glitters  like  gold?  Only  cartridges  and  sabres;  for 
the  King  had  been  reviewing  some  troops  in  Sant' 
Agata,  and  soldiers  defiled  on  both  sides  of  the 
path,  who  hud  the  more  merit  in  my  eyes  because 
they  resembled  the  Prussians,  and  for  a  long  time 
past  1  have  seen  only  Pupal  soldiers.  Some  carried 
dark-lanterns  on  their  muskets,  as  they  had  been 
inarching  all  night.  The  whole  effect  was  bold  and 
gay.  We  now  came  to  a  short  rocky  pass,  from 
which  you  descend  into  the  valley  of  Campana,  the 


142  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

most  enchanting  spot  I  have  ever  seen ;  it  is  like  a 
boundless  garden,  covered  entirely  with  plants  and 
vegetation  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  On  one  side 
are  the  blue  outlines  of  the  sea,  on  the  other  an 
undulating  range  of  hills  above  which  snowy  peaks 
project ;  and  at  a  great  distance  Vesuvius  and  the 
islands,  bathed  in  blue  vapours,  start  up  on  the  level 
surface  ;  large  avenues  of  trees  intersect  the  vast 
space,  and  a  verdant  growth  forces  its  way  from 
under  every  stone.  Everywhere  you  see  grotesque 
aloes  and  cactuses,  and  the  fragrance  and  vegeta- 
tion are  quite  unparalleled. 

The  pleasure  we  enjoy  in  England  through  men, 
we  here  enjoy  through  nature  ;  and  as  there  is  no 
corner  there,  however  small,  of  which  some  one  has 
not  taken  possession  in  order  to  cultivate  and  adorn 
it,  so  here  there  is  no  spot  which  Nature  has  not 
appropriated,  bringing  forth  on  it  flowers  and  herbs, 
and  all  that  is  beautiful.  The  Canipana  valley  is 
fruitfulness  itself.  On  the  whole  of  the  vast  im- 
measurable surface  bounded  in  the  far  distance  by 
blue  hills  and  a  blue  sea,  nothing  but  green  meets 
the  eye.  At  last  you  come  to  Capua.  I  cannot 
blame  Hannibal  for  remaining  too  long  there. 
From  Capua  to  Naples  the  road  runs  uninterruptedly 
between  trees,  with  hanging  vines,  till  at  the  end  of 
the  avenue,  Vesuvius,  and  the  sea.  with  Capri,  and 
a  mass  of  houses,  lie  before  you.  1  am  living  here 
in  St.  Lucia'as  if  in  heaven  ;  for  in  the  first  place  I 
Bee  before  me  Vesuvius,  and  the  hills  as  far  as  Cas- 
tellamare,  and  the  bay,  and  in  the  second  place,  J 


ARRIVAT,    AT    NAPLES.  143 

am  liar.g  up  three  stories  high.  Unfortunately  that 
traitor  Vesuvius  does  not  smoke  at  all,  and  look?, 
precisely  like  any  other  fine  mountain  ;  Imt  at  night 
the  people  float  in  lighted  boats  on  the  Bay,  to 
catch  sword-fish.  This  has  a  pretty  enough  effect 
Farewell  !  FKLIX. 


Naples,  April  2Oth,  1831. 

"We  are  so  accustomed  to  find  that  everything 
turns  out  quite  differently  from  what  we  expected 
and  calculated,  that  you  will  feel  no  surprise  when 
instead  of  a  letter  like  a  journal,  you  receive  a  very 
short  one,  merely  saying  that  I  am  quite  well,  and 
little  else. 

As  for  the  scenery,  I  cannot  describe  it.  and  if 
you  have  no  conception  of  what  it  really  is,  after  all 
that  has  been  said  and  written  on  the  subject,  there 
is  little  chance  of  my  enlightening  you  ;  for  what 
makes  it  so  indescribably  beautiful,  is  precisely  that 
it  is  not  of  a  nature  to  admit  of  description.  Any 
other  detail  I  could  send  you  would  be  about  my 
life  here  ;  but  it  is  so  simple,  that  a  very  few  words 
suffice  to  depict  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  any  ac- 
quaintances, for  I  am  resolved  not  to  remain  here 
longer  than  a  few  weeks.  I  intend  to  make  various 
excursions  to  see  the  country,  and  all  I  desire  here, 
is  to  become  thoroughly  intimate  with  nature  :  so  I 
go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock,  and  rise  at  five,  to  refresh 
myself  by  gazing  from  my  balcony  at  Vesuvius,  the 


144  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

sea,  and  the  coast  of  Sorrento,  in  the  bright  morn- 
ing light.  1  have  also  taken  very  long  solitary 
rambles,  discovering  beautiful  views  for  myself,  and 
I  have  infinite  satisfaction  in  finding  that  what  I 
consider  tlu  loveliest  spot  of  all  is  almost  entirely 
unkirown  to  the  Neapolitans.  During  these  excur- 
sions I  sought  out  some  house  on  a  height,  to  which 
I  scrambled  up  ;  or  else  merely  followed  any  path  I 
fancied,  allowing  myself  to  be  surprised  by  night 
and  moonshine,  and  making  acquaintance  with  vine- 
dressers, in  order  to  learn  my  way  back  ;  arriving 
at  last  at  home  about  nine  o'clock,  very  tired, 
thrciigh  the  Villa  Reale.  The  view  from  this  villa, 
of  the  sea  and  the  enchanting  Capri  by  moonlight, 
is  truly  charming,  and  so  is  the  almost  overpowering 
fragrance  of  the  acacias  in  full  bloom,  and  the  fruit- 
trees  scattered  all  over  with  rose-coloured  blossoms, 
looking  like  trees  with  pink  foliage, — all  this  is 
indeed  quite  indescribable. 

As  I  live  chiefly  with  and  in  nature,  I  can  write 
less  than  usual  ;  perhaps  we  may  talk  it  over  when 
we  meet,  and  the  sketches  in  our  sitting-room  at 
home  will  furnish  materials  and  reminiscences  for 
conversation.  One  thing  I  must  not  however  omit, 
dear  Fanny,  which  is.  that  1  quite  approve  of  your 
taste  when  1  recall  what  you  told  me  years  ago  that 
your  favorite  spot  was  the  island  of  Xisida.  Per- 
haps you  may  have  forgotten  this,  but  I  have  not. 
It  looks  as  if  it  were  made  expressly  for  pleasure- 
grounds.  On  emerging  from  the  thicket  of  Bagnuolo, 
Nisida  has  quite  a  startling  effect,  rising  out  of  the 


NAPLES.  145 

sea.  so  near,  so  large  and  so  green ;  while  the  other 
islands,  Procida.  Ischia.  and  Capri,  stand  afar  off, 
and  indistinct  in  their  blue  tints.  After  the  murder 
of  Crcsar,  Brutus  took  refuge  in  this  island,  and 
Cicero  visited  him  there  ;  the  sea  lay  between  them 
then,  and  the  rocks,  covered  with  vegetation,  bent 
over  the  sea,  just  as  they  do  now.  Thvsc  are  the 
antiquities  that  interest  me,  and  are  infinitely  more 
suggestive  than  crumbling'  mason-work.  There  is  a 
degree  of  innate  superstition  and  dishonesty  among 
the  people  here  that  is  totally  inconceivable,  and 
this  has  often  even  marred  my  pleasure  in  nature  ; 
for  the  Swiss,  of  whom  my  father  complained  so 
much,  are  positively  guileless,  primitive  beings, 
compared  with  the  Neapolitans.  My  landlord  in- 
variably gives  me  too  little  change  for  a  piastre, 
and  when  I  tell  him  of  it,  he  coolly  fetches  the  re- 
mainder. The  only  acquaintances  I  intend  to  make 
here  are  musical  ones,  that  I  may  leave  nothing 
incomplete. — for  instance  Fodor,  who  does  not  sing 
in  public,  Donizetti,  Coccia,  etc. 

1  now  conclude  by  a  few  words  to  you,  dear 
Father.  You  write  to  me  that  you  disapprove  of 
my  going  to  Sicily;  I  have  consequently  given  up 
this  plan,  though  I  cannot  deny  that  I  do  so  with 
great  reluctance,  for  it  was  really  more  than  a  mere 
whim  on  my  part.  There  is  no  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended, and,  as  if  on  purpose  to  vex  me,  a  steamer 
leaves  this  city  on  the  4th  of  May,  which  is  to  make 
the  entire  tour ;  and  a  good  many  Germans,  and  pro- 
bably the  minister  here,  are  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
13 


.146  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  a  mountain  vomiting  forth 
flames,  as  Vesuvius  has  been  hitherto  so  unkind  aa 
not  even  to  smoke.  Your  instructions  however 
have  till  now  so  entirely  coincided  with  my  own  in- 
clinations, that  I  cannot  allow  the  first  opportunity 
I  have  of  showing  my  obedience  to  your  wishes 
(even  when  opposed  to  my  own),  to  pass  without 
complying  with  them,  so  I  have  effaced  Sicily  from 
try  travelling  route.  Perhaps  we  may  meet  sooner 
in  consequence  of  this ;  and  now  farewell,  for  I  am 

going  to  walk  to  Capo  di  Monte. 

FELIX. 


Naples,  April  2yth,  1831. 

It  is  now  nearly  a  fortnight  since  I  have  heard 
from  you.  I  do  earnestly  hope  that  nothing  un- 
pleasant has  occurred,  and  every  day  I  expect  the 
post  will  bring  me  tidings  of  you  all.  3Iy  letters 
from  Naples  arc  of  little  value,  for  I  am  too  deeply 
absorbed  here  to  be  able  easily  to  extricate  myself, 
and  to  write  descriptive  letters.  Besides,  when  we 
had  bad  weather  lately,  I  took  advantage  of  it  to 
resume  my  labours,  and  zealously  applied  myself  to 
my  "Walpurgis  Night,"  which  daily  increases  in 
interest  for  me,  so  I  employ  every  spare  moment,  in 
completing  it.  1  hope  to  finish  it  in  a  few  days,  and 
1  think  it  will  turn  out  well.  If  f  continue  in  my 
present  mood,  I  shall  finish  my  Italian  symphony 
also  in  Itah,  in  which  case  1  shall  have  a  famous 


VISIT    TO    POMPEII.  14  J 

store  to  bring  home  with  me,  the  fruits  of  this  win- 
ter. Moreover  every  day  I  have  something  new  to 
see.  I  generally  make  my  excursions  with  the 
Scliadows. 

Yesterday  we  went  to  Pompeii.  It  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  burnt  down,  or  like  a  recently  deserted 
city.  As  both  of  these  always  seem  to  me  deeply 
affecting,  the  impression  made  on  me  was  the  most 
melancholy  that  I  have  yet  experienced  in  Italy. 
It  is  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  just  gone  out,  and  yet 
almost  every  object  tells  of  another  religion  and 
another  life;  in  short,  of  seventeen  hundred  years 
ago  ;  and  the  French  and  English  ladies  scramble 
about  as  gaily  as  possible,  and  sketch  it  all.  It  is 
the  old  tragedy  of  the  Past  and  the  Present,  a 
problem  I  never  can  solve.  Lively  Naples  is  indeed 
a  pleasant  contrast;  but  it  is  painful  to  see  the 
crowd  of  wretched  beirgars  who  waylay  you  in  every 
street  and  path,  swarming  round  the  carriage  the 
instant  it  stops.  The  old  white-haired  men  particu- 
larly distress  me,  and  such  a  mass  of  misery  exceeds 
all  belief.  If  you  are  walking  on  the  sea-shore,  and 
gazing  at  the  islands,  and  then  chance  to  look  round 
at  the  land,  you  find  yourself  the  centre  of  a  group 
of  cripples,  who  make  a  trade  of  their  infirmities  ; 
or  you  discover  (which  lately  happened  to  me)  that 
you  are  surrounded  by  thirty  or  forty  children,  all 
whining  out  their  favourite  phrase.  "Muoio  di  fame." 
and  rattling  their  jaws  to  show  that  they  have  noth- 
ing to  eat.  All  this  forms  a  most  repulsive  contrast; 
and  yet  to  me  it  is  still  more  repugnant  that  you 


148  MEXDELSSOIIX'S    LETTERS. 

must  entirely  renounce  the  great  pleasure  of  seeing 
happy  faces;  for  even  when  you  have  given  the 
richest  gratuities  to  euards.  waiters,  or  workpeople, 
in  short,  to  whom  yon  will,  the  invariable  rejoinde? 
is.  "Nienti  di  p'u.  ?"  in  which  case  you  may  be  very 
sure  that  you  have  given  too  much.  If  it  is  the 
proper  sum,  they  give  it  back  with  the  greatest 
apparent  indignation,  and  then  return  and  beg  to 
have  it  again.  These  are  trifles,  certainly,  but  they 
show  the  lamentable  condition  of  the  people.  I 
have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  feel  provoked  with  the 
perpetual  smiling  aspect  of  nature,  when  in  the 
most  retired  spots  troops  of  beggars  everywhere 
assailed  me.  some  even  persisting  in  following  me  a 
long  way.  It  is  only  when  I  am  quietly  seated  in 
my  own  room,  gazing  down  on  the  Bay,  and  on 
Vesuvius,  that  being  totally  alone  with  them  1  feel 
really  cheerful  and  happy. 

To-day  we  are  to  ascend  the  hill  to  visit  the 
Cama'.doli  Monastery,  and  to-morrow,  if  the  weather 
permits,  we  proceed  to  Procida  and  Ischia.  J  go 
this  evening  to  Madame  Fodor's  with  Donizetti, 
Benedict,  etc.  She  is  very  kind  and  amiable  to- 
wards me.  and  her  singing  has  ^iven  me  great  pleas- 
ure, for  she  has  \vonderful  facility,  and  executes  her 
fioritiirt,  with  so  much  taste,  that  it  is  easv  to  see 
how  many  tilings  Soimtag  acquired  from  her,  es- 
pecially the  in<::zii  vucc,  which  Fodi.r,  who.;e  voice 
is  no  longer  full  and  fresh,  most  prudently  and 
judiciously  introduces  into  many  passages.  As  she 
is  not  singing  at  the  theatre,  I  am  most  fortunate  in 


SIXGERS    AT    NAPLES.  149 

having  made  her  acquaintance  personally.  The 
theatre  is  now  closed  for  some  weeks,  because  the 
blood  of  St.  Januarius  is  shortly  to  liquefy.  AYhat 
I  heard  at  the  opera  previously  did  not  repay  the 
trouble  of  going.  The  orchestra,  like  that  in  Rome, 
was  worse  than  in  any  part  of  Germany,  and  not 
even  one  tolerable  female  singer.  Tamburini  alone, 
with  his  vigorous  bass  voice,  imparted  some  life  to 
the  whole.  Those  who  wish  to  hear  Italian  operas, 
must  now-a-days  go  to  Paris  or  London.  Heaven 
grant  that  this  may  not  eventually  be  the  case  with 
German  music  also  ! 

I  must  however  return  to  my  "  "Witches,"  so  you 
must  forgive  my  not  writing  any  more  to-day.  This 
whole  letter  seems  to  hover  in  uncertainty,  or  rather 
1  do  so  in  my  "  "Walpurgis  Night,"  whether  I  am  1o 
introduce  the  big  drum  or  not.  "  Zacken.  Gabeln, 
und  wilde  Klapperstucke,"  seem  to  force  me  to  the 
big  drum,  but  moderation  dissuades  me.  I  certainly 
am  the  only  person  who  ever  composed  for  the  scene 
on  the  Brocken  without  employing  a  piccolo-flute, 
but  I  can't  help  regretting  the  big  drum,  and  before 
T  can  receive  Fanny's  advice,  the  "  Walpurgis 
Night"  will  be  finished  and  packed  up.  I  shall 
then  set  off  again  on  my  travels,  and  Heaven  knows 
what  I  may  have  in  my  head  by  that  time.  I  feel 
convinced  that  Fanny  would  say  yes  ;  still,  I  feel 
very  doubtful ;  at  all  events  a  vast  noise  is  indis- 
pensable. 

Oh,  Rebecca !  can  you  not  procure  the  words  of 
Borne  songs,  and  send  them  to  rne  ?  I  feel  quite  in 
13* 


150  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS 

the  humour  for  them,  and  you  must  require  some- 
thing new  to  sing.  If  you  can  furnish  me  with  some 
pretty  verses,  old  or  new,  gay  or  grave,  I  will  coin- 
pose  something  in  a  style  to  suit  your  voice.  I  am 
at  your  service  for  any  compact  of  this  kind.  Pray 
do  send  me  wherewithal  to  work  at,  during  my  jour- 
ney, in  the  inns.  Now,  farewell  to  you  all!  May 
you  be  as  happy  as  I  ever  wish  you  to  be,  and  think 
of  me  !  FKI.IX. 


Naples,  May  lyth,  1831. 

On  Saturday,  the  14th  of  May,  at  two  o'clock,  I 
told  my  driver  to  turn  the  carriage.  We  were  oppo- 
site the  Temple  of  Ceres  at  Pai'stum,  the  most 
southern  point  of  my  journey.  The  carriage  conse- 
quently turned  towards  the  north,  and  from  that 
moment,  as  I  journey  onwards,  I  am  every  hour 
drawing  nearer  to  you.  Jt  is  about  a  year  now  since 
I  travelled  with  my  father  to  Dessau  and  Leipzig; 
the  time  in  fact  exactly  corresponds,  for  it  was 
about  the  half-year.  1  have  made  good  use  of  the 
past  year.  1  have  acquired  considerable  experience 
and  many  new  impressions.  Both  in  Rome  and  here 
I  have  been  very  busy,  but  no  change  has  occurred 
in  my  outward  circumstances;  and  till  the  begin- 
ning of  the  new  year,  in  fact  so  long  as  I  am  in 
Italy,  it  will  probably  be  the  same.  This  period 
haa  not  however  been  less  valuable  to  me  than  some 
when  outwardly,  aiid  in  the  opiuiou  of  others,  I  have 


EXPERIENCE    GAINED.  151 

appeared  to  make  greater  progress  ;  for  there  must 
always  be  a  close  connection  between  the  two.  If 
]  have  gathered  experience,  it  cauaot  fail  to  influ- 
ence me  outwardly,  and  1  shall  allow  no  opportunity 
to  escape  to  show  that  it  has  done  so.  Possibly 
some  such  may  occur  before  the  end  of  my  journey, 
so  L  may  for  the  present  continue  to  enjoy  nature, 
and  the  blue  sky,  during  the  months  that  still  re- 
main I'or  me  in  Italy,  without  thinking  of  anything 
else  ;  for  there  alone  lies  true  art,  now  in  Italy, — 
thcrt  and  in  her  monuments;  and  there  it  will  ever 
remain;  and  there  we  shall  ever  find  it,  for  our  in- 
struction and  delight,  so  long  as  Vesuvius  stands, 
and  so  long  as  the  balmy  air,  and  the  sea,  and  the 
trees  do  not  pass  away. 

Ju  spite  of  all  this,  1  am  enough  of  a  musician  to 
own  that  I  do  heartily  long  once  more  to  hear  an 
orchestra  or  a  full  chorus  where  there  is  at  least 
some  sound,  for  here  there  is  nothing  of  the  sort 
This  is  unr  peculiar  province,  and  to  be  so  long 
deprived  of  such  an  element,  leaves  a  sad  void. 
The  orchestra  and  chorus  here  are  like  those  in  our 
second-rate  provincial  towns,  only  more  harsh  and 
incorrect.  The  first  violinist,  all  through  the  opera, 
beats  the  four  quarters  of  each  bar  on  a  tin  candle- 
stick, which  is  often  more  distinctly  heard  than  the 
voices  (it  sounds  somewhat  like  i.hb'iijnii  castanets, 
only  louder);  and  yet  in  spite  of  this  the  voices  are 
never  tog.'ther.  Kvery  little  instrumental  solo  is 
adorn  jd  with  old-fashioned  flourishes,  and  a  bad 
tone  pervades  the  whole  performance,  which  is 


152  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

totally  devoid  of  genius,  fire,  or  spirit.  The  singers 
are  the  worst  Italian  ones  I  ever  heard  anywhere 
(except,  indeed,  in  Italy),  and  those  who  wish  to 
have  a  true  idea  of  Italian  singing  must  go  to  Paris 
or  to  London.  Even  the  Dresden  company,  whom  I 
heard  last  year  in  Leipzig,  are  superior  to  any  here. 
This  is  but,  natural,  for  in  the  boundless  misery  that 
prevails  in  Naples,  where  can  the  bases  of  a  theatre 
be  found,  which  of  course  requires  considerable 
capital  ?  The  days  when  every  Italian  was  a  born 
musician,  if  indeed  they  ever  existed,  are  long  gone 
by.  They  treat  music  like  any  other  fashionable 
article,  with  total  indifference  ;  in  fact,  they  scarcely 
pay  it  the  homage  of  outward  respect,  so  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  every  single  person  of  tak-ni 
should,  as  regularly  as  they  appear,  transfer  them- 
selves to  foreign  countries,  where  they  are  better 
appreciated,  their  position  better  defined,  and  where 
they  find  opportunities  of  hearing  and  learning 
something  profitable  and  inspiriting. 

The  only  really  good  singer  here  is  Tamburini ; 
he  lias,  however,  long  since  been  heard  in  Vienna 
and  Paris,  and  I  believe  in  London  also  ;  so  now, 
when  he  begins  to  discover  that  his  voice  is  on  the 
decline,  he  comes  back  to  Italy.  I  cannot  admit 
either  that  the  Italians  alone  understand  the  art  of 
singing;  for  there  is  no  music,  however  florid.  1 
have  ever  heard  executed  by  Italians,  that  Sonntug 
cannot  accomplish,  and  in  even  greater  perfection. 
She  certainly,  as  she  acknowledges,  learned  much 
from  Fodor  ;  but  why  should  not  another  German 


DECLINE    OF    MUSIC    IX    ITAI  T.  153 

in  turn  learn  the  same  from  Sonntag?  and  Malibran 
is  a  Spaniard.  Italy  can  no  longer  claim  the  glori- 
ous appellation  of  "the  land  of  music  ;"  in  truth, 
she  has  already  lost  it,  and  possibly  she  may  yet  do 
so  even  in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  though  this 
is  problematical.  I  was  lately  in  company  with 
some  professional  musicians,  who  were  speaking  of 
a  new  opera  by  a  Neapolitan,  Coccia  ;  and  one  of 
them  asked  if  it  was  clever.  '•  Probably  it  is,"  said 
another,  '-for  Coccia  was  long  in  England,  where  he 
studied,  and  some  of  his  compositions  are  much 
liked  there."  This  struck  me  as  very  remarkable,  for 
in  England  they  would  have  spoken  exactly  in  the 
same  way  of  Italy;  but  quo  me  rapis  ?  I  say 
nothing  to  you.  dear  sisters,  in  this  letter,  but  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days  I  mean  to  send  you  a  little 
pamphlet  dedicated  to  you.  Do  not  be  alarmed,  it 
is  not  poetry  ;  the  thing  is  simply  entitled  "Journal 
of  an  Excursion  to  the  Islands,  in  May." 

FELIX. 


Naples,  May  28th,  1831. 
My  dear  Sisters, 

As  my  journal  is  become  too  stupid  and  uninter- 
esting to  send  you,  I  must  at  least  supply  you  with 
an  (ibr&jA  of  my  history.  You  must  know,  then, 
that  on  Friday,  the  'JUth  of  May.  we  breakfasted  in 
corpore  at  Naples,  on  fruit,  etc. ;  this  in  corpore  in- 
cludes the  travelling  party  to  Ischia,  consisting  of 


154  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Ed.  Bcndemann,  T.  Ilildebrand,  Carl  Sohn,  and 
Felix  Mendelssohn  Bartholdy.  My  knapsack  was 
not  very  heavy,  for  it  contained  scarcely  anything 
but  Goethe's  poems,  and  three  shirts;  so  we  packed 
ourselves  into  a  hired  carriage,  and  drove  through 
the  grotto  of  Posilippo  to  Pozzuoli.  The  road  runs 
along  by  the  sea,  and  nothing  can  be  more  lovely  ;  so 
il  is  all  the  more  painful  to  witness  the  horrible  col- 
lection of  cripples,  blind  men,  beggars,  and  galley 
slaves,  in  short,  the  poor  wretches  of  every  descrip- 
tion who  there  await  you,  amid  the  holiday  aspect 
of  nature. 

1  seated  myself  quietly  on  the  mole  and  sketched, 
while  the  others  plodded  and  toiled  through  the 
Temple  of  Serapis,  the  theatres,  the  hot  tprings. 
I'.ml  extinct  volcanoes,  which  I  had  already  seen  to 
satiety  on  three  different  occasions.  Then,  like  youth- 
ful patriarchs  or  in  mads, we  collected  all  our  goods 
and  chattels,  cloaks,  knapsacks,  books  and  portfolios 
on  donkeys,  and  placing  ourselves  also  on  them,  we 
made  the  tour  of  the  Bay  of  Bai;u,  as  far  as  the 
Lake  of  Avernus,  where  you  are  obliged  to  buy  fish 
for  dinner;  we  crossed  the  hill  to  Cum  as  (ride 
Goethe's  'Wanderer')  and  descended  on  Baire, 
where  we  ate  and  rested.  AVe  then  looked  at  more 
ruined  temples,  ancient  baths,  and  other  things  of 
the  kind,  and  thus  evening  had  arrived  before  we 
crossed  the  bay. 

At  half-past  nine  we  arrived  at  the  little  town  of 
Ischia,  where  we  found  every  corner  of  the  only  iun 
fully  occupied,  so  we  resolved  to  go  011  to  Doii  Tom- 


DON    TOMMASO.  155 

mfiso's  ;  a  journey  of  two  hours  nominally,  but  which 
•we  performed  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  The  evening1 
was  dcliciously  cool,  and  innumerable  glow-worms, 
who  allowed  us  to  catch  them,  were  scattered  on  the 
vine-branches,  and  fig-trees,  and  shrubs.  AVhen  we 
at  last  arrived,  somewhat  fatigued,  at  Don  Tom- 
maso's  house,  about  eleven  o'clock,  we  found  all  the 
people  still  up,  clean  rooms,  fresh  fruits,  and  a  friendly 
deacon  to  wait  on  us.  so  we  remained  comfortably 
seated  opposite  aheap  of  cherries  till  midnight.  The 
next  morning  the  weather  was  bad.  and  the  rain  inces- 
sant, so  we  could  not  ascend  the  Epomeo,  and  as  we 
seemed  little  disposed  to  converse  (we  did  not  get  on  in 
this  respect,  Heaven  knows  why!)  the  affair  would 
have  become  rather  a  bore,  if  Don  Tommaso  had  not 
possessed  the  prettiest  poultry-yard  and  farm  in 
Europe,  llight  in  front  of  the  door  stands  a  large 
leafy  orange-tree  covered  with  ripe  fruit,  and  from 
under  its  branches  a  stair  leads  to  the  dwelling.  Each 
of  the  white  stone  step?  is  decorated  with  a  large  vase 
of  flowers,  these  steps  leading  to  a  spacious  open  hall, 
whence  through  an  archway  you  look  down  on  the 
whole  farm-yard,  with  its  orange-trees,  stairs,  thatched 
roofs,  wine  casks  and  pitchers,  donkeys  and  peacocks. 
That  a  foreground  may  not  be  wanting,  an  Indian  fig- 
tree  stands  under  the  walled  arch,  so  luxuriant  that 
it  is  fastened  to  the  wall  with  ropes.  The  back- 
ground is  formed  by  vineyards  with  summer-houses, 
and  the  adjacent  heights  of  the  Monte  Epomeo. 
Being  protected  from  the  rain  by  the  archway,  the 
party  seated  themselves  ther?  under  shelter,  and 


156  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

sketched  the  various  objects  in  the  farm  the  best 
•way  they  could,  the  whole  livelong  day.  I  was  on 
no  ceremony,  and  sketched  along  with  them,  and  I 
think  I  in  some  degree  profited  by  so  doing.  At 
night  we  had  a  terrific  storm,  and  as  I  was  lying  in 
bed,  I  remarked  that  the  thunder  growled  tremen- 
dously on  Monte  Epomeo,  and  the  echoes  continued 
to  vibrate  like  those  on  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  but 
even  for  a  greater  length  of  time. 

Next  morning,  Sunday,  the  weather  was  again  fine. 
We  went  to  Foria,  and  saw  the  people  going  to  the 
cathedral  in  their  holiday  costumes.  The  women 
wore  their  well-known  head-dress  of  folds  of  white 
muslin  placed  flat  on  the  head ;  the  men  were  stand- 
ing in  the  square  before  the  church,  in  their  bright 
red  caps,  gossiping  about  politics,  and  we  gradually 
wound  our  way  through  these  festal  villages  up  the 
hill.  It  is  a  huge  rugged  volcano,  full  of  fissures, 
ravines,  cavities,  and  steep  precipices.  The  cavities 
being  used  for  wine  cellars,  they  are  filled  with  large 
casks.  Every  declivity  is  clothed  with  vines  and 
fig-trees,  or  mulberry-trees.  Corn  grows  on  the  sides 
of  the  steep  rocks,  and  yields  more  than  one  crop 
every  year.  The  ravines  are  covered  with  ivy,  and 
innumerable  bright-coloured  flowers  and  herbs,  and 
wherever  there  is  a  vacant  space,  young  chestnut- 
trees  shoot  up.  furnishing  the  most  delightful  shade. 
The  last  village,  Fontana,  lies  in  the  midst  of  ver- 
dure and  vegetation.  As  we  climbed  liigher.  the 
sky  became  overcast  and  gloomy,  and  by  the  time 
we  reached  the  most  elevated  peaks  of  the  rocks,  a 


CAPRI.  157 

thick  fog  had  come  on.  The  vapours  flitted  about, 
and  although  the  rugged  outlines  of  the  rocks,  and 
the  telegraph,  and  the  cross,  stood  forth  strangely  in 
the  clouds,  still  we  could  not  see  even  the  smallest 
portion  of  the  view.  Soon  afterwards  rain  com- 
menced, and  as  it  was  impossible  to  remain,  and 
wait  as  you  do  on  lhe  Riglri,  we  were  obliged  to  take 
leave  of  Kpomeo  without  having  made  his  acquain- 
tance. We  ran  down  in  the  rain,  one  rushing  after 
the  other,  and  1  do  believe  that  we  were  scarcely  an 
hour  in  returning. 

Next  day  \ve  went  to  Capri.  This  place  has 
something  Eastern  in  its  aspect,  with  the  glowing 
heat  reflected  from  its  rocky  white  walls,  its  palm- 
trees,  and  the  rounded  domes  of  the  churches  that 
look  like  mosques.  The  sirocco  was  burning,  and 
rendered  me  quite  unfit  to  enjoy  anything;  for 
really  climbing  up  five  hundred  and  thirty-seven 
steps  to  Anacapri  in  this  frightful  heat,  and  then 
coming  down  again,  is  toil  only  fit  for  a  horse. 
True,  the  sea  is  wondrously  lovely,  looking  down 
on  it  from  the  summit  of  the  bleak  rock,  and 
through  the  singular  fissures  of  the  jagged  peaks, 
so  strangely  formed. 

But  above  all,  I  must  tell  you  of  the  blue  grotto, 
for  it  is  not  known  to  every  one,  as  you  can  only 
enter  it  either  in  very  calm  weather,  or  by  swimming. 
The  rocks  there  project  precipitously  into  the  sea, 
and  are  probably  as  steep  under  the  water  as  above 
it.  A  huge  cavity  has  been  hollowed  out  by  nature, 
but  in  such  a  manner,  that  round  the  whole  circum- 
14 


158  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

ference  of  the  grotto,  the  rocks  rest  on  the  sea  in 
all  their  breadth,  or  rather  arc  sunk  prccip.tously 
into  it,  and  ascend  thence  to  the  vault  of  the  cav- 
ern. The  sea  fills  the  whole  space  of  the  grotto, 
the  entrance  to  which  lies  under  the  water,  only  a 
very  small  portion  of  the  opening  projecting  above 
the  water,  and  through  this  narrow  space  you  can 
only  pass  in  a  small  boat,  in  which  you  must  lie 
flat.  When  you  are  once  in.  the  whole  extent,  of 
the  huge  cave  and  its  vault  is  revealed,  and  you  can 
row  about  in  it  with  perfect  ease,  as  if  under  a  dome. 
The  light  of  the  sun  also  pierces  through  the  open- 
ing into  the  grotto  underneath  the  sea,  but  broken 
and  dimmed  by  the  green  sea  water,  and  thence  it 
is  that  such  magical  visions  arise.  The  whole  of 
the  rocks  are  sky-blue  and  green  in  the  twilight, 
resembling  the  hue  of  moonshine,  yet  every  nook, 
and  every  depth,  is  distinctly  visible.  The  water  is 
thoroughly  lighted  up  and  brilliantly  illuminated 
by  the  light  of  the  sun,  so  that  the  dark  skill'  glides 
over  a  bright  shining  surface.  The  colour  is  the 
most  dazzling  blue  I  ever  saw,  without  shadow  or 
cloud,  like  a  pane  of  opal  glass;  and  as  the  sun 
shines  down,  you  can  plainly  discern  all  that  is 
going  on  under  the  water,  while  the  whole  depths  of 
the  sea  with  its  living  creatures  are  disclosed.  You 
can  see  the  coral  insects  and  polypuses  clinging  to 
the  rocks,  and  far  below,  fishes  of  different  specie's 
meeting  and  swimming  past  each  other.  The  rocks 
become  deeper  in  colour  as  they  go  lower  into  the 
water,  and  are  quite  black  at  the  end  of  the  grotto, 


OROTTO    AT    CAPRI.  159 

where  they  fire  closely  crowded  together,  and  still 
further  under  them,  you  can  see  crabs,  fishes,  and 
reptiles  in  the  clear  waters.  Every  stroke  too  of 
the  oars  echoes  strangely  under  the  vault,  and  as 
you  row  round  the  wall,  new  objects  come  to  light. 
I  do  wish  you  could  see  it,  for  the  effect  is  singu- 
larly magical.  On  turning  towards  the  opening  by 
which  you  entered,  the  daylight  seen  through  it 
seems  bright  orange,  and  by  moving  even  a  few 
paces  you  are  entirely  isolated  under  the  rock  in 
the  sea.  with  its  own  peculiar  sunlight:  it  is  as  if 
you  were  actually  living  under  the  water  for  a  time. 

We  then  proceeded  to  Procida,  where  the  women 
adopt  the  Greek  dress,  but  do  not  look  at  all 
prettier  from  doing  so.  Curious  faces  were  peeping 
from  every  window.  A  couple  of  Jesuits,  in  black 
"•owns  and  with  gloomy  countenances,  were  seated 
in  a  gay  arbour  of  vines,  evidently  enjoying  them- 
selves, and  made  a  good  picture.  Then  we  crossed 
the  sea  to  Pozzuoli,  and  through  the  grotto  of 
Posilippo  again  home. 

1  cannot  write  to  Paul  about  his  change  of  resi- 
d'Micc.  and  his  entrance  into  the  great,  wide  world 
of  London,  because  he  mentions  casually,  that  he 
will  probably  leave  for  London  in  the  course  of 
three  weeks,  so  my  letter  could  not  possibly  reach 
him  in  Berlin  ;  a  week  hence  I  shall  take  my  chance, 
and  address  to  my  brother  in  London.  That  smoky 
place  is  fated  to  be  now  and  ever  my  favourite  resi- 
dence ;  my  heart  glows  when  I  even  think  of  it, 
and  I  paint  to  myself  my  return  there,  passing 


160  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTKRS. 

through  Paris,  and  finding  Paul  independent,  alone, 
and  another  man,  in  the  dear  old  haunts;  when  ho 
will  present  me  to  his  new  friends,  and  I  will  pre- 
sent him  to  my  old  ones,  and  we  shall  live  and  dwell 
together  :  so  even  at  this  moment  I  am  all  impa- 
tience soon  to  go  there.  I  see  by  some  newspapers 
my  friends  have  sent  me,  that  my  name  is  not  for- 
gotten, and  so  I  hope  when  I  return  to  London,  to 
be  able  to  work  steadily,  which  I  was  previously 
unable  to  do,  being  forced  to  go  to  Italy.  If  they 
make  any  difficulty  in  Munich  about  my  opera,  or  if 
I  cannot  get  a  libretto  that  I  like,  1  intend  in  that 
case  to  compose  an  opera  for  London.  I  know  that 
I  could  receive  a  commission  to  do  so,  as  soon  as  I 
chose.  I  am  also  bringing  some  new  pieces  with 
me  for  the  Philharmonic,  and  so  I  shall  have  made 
good  use  of  my  time. 

As  my  evenings  here  are  at  my  own  disposal,  I 
read  a  little  French  and  English.  The  "Barricades" 
and  '•  Les  Eials  de  I>lois"  particularly  interest  me, 
as  while  f  read  them  I  realize  with  horror  a  period 
which  we  have  often  heard  extolled  as  a  vigorous 
epoch,  too  soon  passed  away.  Though  these  books 
seem  to  me  to  have  many  faults,  yet  the  delineation 
of  the  two  opposite  leaders  is  but  too  correct  ;  both 
were  weak,  irresolute,  miserable  hypocrites,  and  I 
thank  (iod  that  the  so  highly-prized  middle  ages 
are  gone  never  1o  return.  .Say  nothing  of  this  to 
any  disciple  of  Hegel's,  but  it  is  so  nevertheless; 
and  the  more  I  read  and  think  on  the  subject,  the 
more  1  feel  this  to  be  true.  Sterne  has  become  a 


STERNE'S  •  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY.'  161 

great  favourite  of  mine.  1  remembered  that  Goethe 
once  spoke  to  me  of  the  'Sentimental  Journey,1 
and  said  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  better 
tn  paint  what  a  froward  and  perverse  thing  is  the 
human  heart.  I  chanced  to  meet  with  the  book, 
and  thought  I  should  like  to  read  it.  It  pleases  me 
very  much.  I  think  it  very  subtle,  and  beautifully 
conceived  and  expressed. 

There  are  very  few  German  books  to  be  had  here. 
I  am  therefore  restricted  to  Goethe's  Poems,  and 
assuredly  these  are  suggestive  enough,  and  always 
new.  I  feel  especial  interest  in  those  poems  which 
lie  evidently  composed  in  or  near  Naples,  such  as 
Alexis  and  Dora  ;  for  1  daily  see  from  my  window 
how  this  wonderful  work  was  created.  Indeed, 
which  is  ofien  the  case  with  master-pieces.  I  often 
suddenly  and  involuntarily  think,  that  the  very  same 
ideas  might  have  occurred  to  myself  on  a  similar 
occasion,  and  as  if  Goethe  had  only  by  some  chance 
been  the  first  to  express  them. 

With  regard  to  the  poem.  '-Gott  segne  dich,  junge 
Fran,"  1  maintain  that  I  have  discovered  its  locality 
and  dined  with  the  woman  herself;  but  of  course  she 
is  now  grown  old,  and  the  boy  she  was  then  nursing 
is  become  a  stalwart  vine-dresser.  Her  house  lies 
between  Pozzuoli  and  Baiae,  "eines  Tempels  Trlim- 
mern/'  and  is  fully  three  miles  from  Cumae.  You 
may  imagine  therefore  with  what  new  light  and 
truth  these  poems  dawn  on  me,  and  the  different 
feeling  with  which  1  now  regard  and  study  them. 
I  say  nothing  of  Miguon's  song  at  present,  but  it  ia 
14* 


162  MKXnKLSSOTIN's    LETTERS. 

singular  that  Goethe  and  Thonvaldsen  arc  still 
living,  that  Beethoven  only  died  a  few  years  ago, 

and  \et.  II declares  that  German  art  is  as  dead 

as  a  rat.  Quod  r,<,n.  So  much  the  worse  for  him 
if  he  really  feels  thus  ;  hut  when  1  reflect  for  a  time 
on  his  conclusions,  they  appear  to  me  very  shallow. 
Apropos,  Schadow,  who  returns  to  IMlsseldorf  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days,  has  premised  to  extract, 
if  possible,  some  new  songs  for  me  from  Immennann, 
which  rejoices  me  much.  That  man  is  a  true  poet. 
which  is  proved  by  his  letters,  and  everything  that 
he  has  written.  Count  Platen  is  a  little, shrivelled, 
wheezing  old  man,  with  gold  spectacles,  yet  not 
more  than  five-and-thirty  !  ITe  quite  startled  me. 
The  Greeks  look  very  different!  He  abuses  the 
Germans  terribly,  forgetting  however  that  he  does 
so  in  German.  But  farewell  for  to-day. 

FELIX. 


Rome,  June  6th,  1831. 
Mv  dear  Parents, 

It  is  indeed  high  time  that  I  should  write  to  you 
a  rational,  methodical  letter,  for  I  fear  that  none  of 
those  from  Naples  were  worth  much.  It  really 
seemed  as  if  the  atmosphere  there  deterred  every 
one  from  serious  reflection,  at  least  I  very  seldom 
succeeded  in  collecting  my  thoughts  or  ideas  ;  and 
now  I  have  been  scarcely  more  than  a  few  hours 
here,  wl  en  I  once  more  resume  that  Roman  trau- 


RETURN    TO    ROMK.  163 

quillity.  and  grave  serenity,  which  I  alluded  to  in  my 
former  letters  from  this  place.  I  cannot  express 
how  infinitely  better  1  love  Rome  than  Naples. 
People  allege  that  Rome  is  monotonous,  of  one 
uniform  hue,  melancholy,  and  solitary.  It  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  Naples  is  more  like  a  great  European 
city,  more  lively  and  varied,  and  more  cosmopolitan; 
but  I  may  say  to  you  confidentially,  that  I  begin 
gradually  to  feel  the  most  decided  hatred  of  all  that 
is  cosmopolitan; — I  dislike  it,  just  as  I  dislike 
many-sidedness,  which,  moreover,  I  rather  think  I 
do  not  much  believe  in.  Anything  that  aspires  to 
be  distinguished,  or  beautiful,  or  really  great,  must 
be  one-sided;  but  then  this  one  side  must  be  brought 
to  a  state  of  the  most  consummate  perfection,  and 
no  man  can  deny  that  such  is  the  case  at  Rome. 

Naples  seems  to  me  too  small  to  be  called  prop- 
erly a  great  city,  all  the  life  and  bustle  are  confined 
to  two  large  thoroughfares — the  Toledo,  and  the 
coast  from  the  harbour  to  the  Chiaja.  Naples  does 
not  realize  to  mv  mi  ml  the  idea  of  a  centre  for  a 
great  nation,  which  London  offers  in  such  perfec- 
tion;  chiefly  indeed  because  it  is  deficient  in  a 
people:  for  the  fishermen  and  lazzaroni  I  cannot 
designate  as  a  people,  they  are  more  like  savages, 
and  their  centre  is  not  Naples,  but  the  sea.  The 
middle  classes,  by  which  I  mean  those  who  pursue 
various  trades,  and  the  working  citizens  who  form 
the  basis  of  other  great  towns,  are  quite  subordi- 
nate;  indeed.  I  may  almost  say  that  such  a  class  is 
not  to  be  found  there.  It  was  this  that  often  made 


164  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

me  feel  out  of  humour  during  my  stay  in  Naples, 
much  as  I  loved  and  enjoyed  the  scenery ;  but  as  a 
dissatisfied  feeling  constantly  recurred,  I  think  I 
at  last  discovered  the  cause  to  lie  within  myself.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  was  precisely  unwell  during  the 
incessant  sirocco,  but  it  was  more  disagreeable  than 
an  indisposition  which  passes  away  in  a  few  days.  I 
felt  languid,  disinclined  for  all  that  was  serious. — in 
fact,  lazy.  I  lounged  about  the  streets  all  day  with 
a  morose  face,  and  would  have  preferred  lying  on 
the  ground,  without  the  trouble  of  thinking,  or  wish- 
in?,  or  doing  anything ;  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
me,  that  the  principal  classes  in  Naples  live  in  reality 
precisely  in  the  same  manner ;  that  consequently 
the  source  of  my  depression  did  not  spring  from 
myself,  as  I  had  feared,  but  from  the  whole  combina- 
tion of  air,  climate,  etc.  The  atmosphere  is  suitable 
for  grandees  who  rise  late,  never  require  to  go  out  on 
foot,  never  think  (for  this  is  heating),  sleep  away  a 
couple  of  hours  on  a  sofa  in  the  afternoon,  then  eat 
ice,  and  drive  to  the  theatre  at  night,  where  again 
they  do  not  find  anything  to  think  about,  but 
simply  make  and  receive  visits.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  climate  is  equally  suitable  for  a  fellow  in 
a  shirt,  with  naked  legs  and  arms,  who  also  has  no 
occasion  to  move  about — begging  for  a  few  <jmni 
when  he  has  literally  nothing  left  to  live  on — taking 
his  afternoon's  siesta  stretched  on  the  ground,  or 
on  the  quay,  or  on  the  stone  pavement  (the  pedes- 
trians step  over  him,  or  shove  him  aside  if  he  lies 
right  in  the  middle).  He  fetches  kisfrulti  di  mare 


'  DOLCE    FAR   MENTE.'  165 

himself  out  of  the  sea,  sleeps  wheuver  he  may 
chance  to  find  himself  at  night;  in  short,  he  employs 
every  moment  in  doing  exactly  what  he  likes  best, 
just  as  an  animal  does. 

These  are  the  two  principal  classes  of  Naples. 
By  far  the  largest  portion  of  the  population  of  the 
Toledo  there,  consists  of  gaily  dressed  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  or  husbands  and  wives  driving  together 
in  handsome  equipages,  or  of  those  olive  sans-culottes 
who  sometimes  carry  about  fish  for  sale,  brawling  in 
the  most  stentorian  way.  or  bearing  burdens  when 
they  have  no  longer  any  money  left.  I  believe  there 
are  few  indeed  who  have  any  settled  occupation,  or 
follow  up  any  pursuit  with  zeal  and  perseverance, 
or  who  like  work  for  the  sake  of  working.  Goethe 
says  that  the  misfortune  of  the  North  is,  that  people 
there  always  wish  to  be  doing  something,  and  striv- 
ing a;'ter  some  end ;  and  he  goes  on  to  say,  that  an 
Italian  was  right,  who  advised  him  not  to  think  so 
much,  for  it  Mould  only  give  him  a  headache.  I 
suspect  however  that  he  was  merely  jesting ;  at  all 
events,  he  did  not  act  in  this  manner  himself,  but.  on 
the  contrary,  like  a  genuine  Northman.  If  however 
he  means  that  the  difference  of  character  is  produced 
by  nature,  and  subservient  to  her  influence,  then 
there  is  no  doubt  that  he  is  quite  in  the  right.  I  can 
perfectly  conceive  that  it  must  be  so,  and  why  wolves 
howl ;  still  it  is  not  necessary  to  howl  along  with  them. 
The  proverb  should  be  exactly  reversed.  Those 
who,  owing  to  their  position,  are  obliged  to  work, 
and  must  consequently  both  think  and  bestir  them- 


106  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

selves,  treat  the  matter  as  a  necessary  evil,  which 
brings  them  in  money,  and  when  they  actually  have 
it,  they  too  live  like  the  great,  or  the  naked,  gentle- 
men. Thus  there  is  no  shop  where  you  are  not 
cheated.  Natives  of  Naples,  who  have  been  custo- 
mers, for  many  years,  are  obliged  to  bargain,  and  to 
be  as  much  on  their  guard  as  foreigners  ;  and  one  of 
my  acquaintances,  who  had  dealt  at  the  same  shop 
for  fifteen  years,  told  me  that  during  the  whole 
of  that  period  there  had  been  invariably  the  same 
battle  about  a  few  scudi,  and  that  nothing  could 
prevent  it. 

Thence  it  is  that  there  is  so  little  industry  or  com- 
petition, and  that  Donizetti  finishes  an  opera  in  ten 
days  ;  to  be  sure,  it  is  sometimes  hissed,  but  that 
does  not  matter,  for  it  is  paid  for  all  the  same,  and 
he  can  then  go  about  amusing  himself.  If  at  last 
however  his  reputation  becomes  endangered,  he  will 
in  that  case  be  forced  really  to  work,  which  he  would 
find  by  no  means  agreeable.  This  is  why  he  some- 
times writes  an  opera  in  three  weeks,  bestowing 
considerable  pains  on  a  couple  of  airs  in  it,  so  that 
they  may  please  the  public,  and  then  he  can  afford 
oij^e  more  to  divert  himself,  and  once  more  to  write 
trash.  Their  painters,  in  Ihe  same  way.  paint  the 
most  incredibly  bad  pictures,  far  inferior  even  to 
their  music.  Their  architects  also  erect  buildings 
in  the  worst  taste  ;  among  others,  an  imitation,  on  a 
small  scale,  of  St.  Peter's,  in  the  Chinese  style. 
Lut  what  does  it  matter?  the  pictures  are  bright  in 
colour,  the  music  makes  plenty  of  noise,  the  build 


NEAPOLITAN    ARTISTS.  167 

ings  give  plenty  of  shade,  and  the  Neapolitan  gran- 
dees ask  no  more. 

ily  physical  mood  was  similar  to  theirs,  every, 
thing  inspiring  me  with  a  wish  to  be  idle,  and  to 
lounge  about,  ami  sleep  ;  yet  1  was  constantly  say- 
ing to  myself  that  this  was  wrong ;  and  striving  to 
occupy  myself,  and  to  work,  which  I  could  not 
accomplish.  Hence  arose  the  querulous  tone  of 
some  of  the  letters  I  wrote  to  you,  and  I  could  only 
escape  from  such  a  mood  by  rambling  over  the  hills, 
whore  nature  is  so  divine,  making  every  man  feel 
giatefu!  and  cheerful.  I  did  not  neglect  the  musi- 
cians, and  we  had  a  great  deal  of  music,  out  I  cared 
liitlo  in  reality  for  their  Mattering  encomiums 
Fodor  is  hiiherto  the  only  genuine  artist,  male,  or 
female,  that  1  have  seen  in  Italy  ;  elsewhere  I  should 
probably  have  found  a  great  many  faults  with  her 
singing,  but  I  overlooked  them  all.  because  wheu 
she  sings  it  is  real  music,  and  after  such  a  long  pri- 
vation, that  was  most  acceptable. 

Now  however  1  am  once  more  in  old  Rome,  where 
life  is  very  different.  There  are  processions  daily,  for 
last  week  was  the  Ci  rpus  Domini;  and  just  as  1  left 
the  ciiy  during  the  celebration  of  the  week  follow- 
ing the  Holy  Week.  1  now  return  after  the  Corpus 
Christi  to  find  them  engaged  in  the  same  way.  It 
made  a  singular  impression  on  me  to  see  that  the 
streets  had  in  ihe  interim  assumed  such  an  aspect 
of  summer:  on  all  sides  booths  with  lemons  and 
iced  water,  the  people  in  light  dresses,  th-1  windows 
ouen,  and  the  jaloc^its  closed.  You  sit  at  the 


168  MENDELSSO.IN'S  LETTERS. 

doors  of  coffee-houses,  and  eat  gelato  in  quanti- 
ties ;  the  Corso  swarms  with  equipages,  for  people 
no  longer  walk  much,  and  though  iu  reality  I  miss 
no  dear  friends  or  relatives,  yet  I  felt  quite  moved 
when  I  once  more  saw  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and 
the  familiar  names  written  up  on  the  corners  of  the 
streets.  I  shall  stay  here  for  about  a  week,  and  then 
proceed  northwards. 

The  Infiorata  is  on  Thursday,  but  it  is  not  yet 
quite  certain  that  it  will  take  place,  because  they 
have  some  apprehensions  of  a  revolution  ;  but  I 
hope  I  shall  witness  this  ceremony.  I  mean  to  take 
advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  see  the  hills  once 
more,  and  then  to  set  off  for  the  north.  Wish  me 
a  good  journey,  for  I  am  on  the  eve  of  departure. 
It  is  a  year  this  very  day  since  I  arrived  in  Munich, 
heard  '  Fidelio,'  and  wrote  to  you.  We  have  not 
met  since  then;  but,  please  God,  we  shall  see  each 
other  again  before  another  year. 


Rome,  June  16,  1831. 
Dear  Professor, 

It  was  my  intention  some  time  ago  to  have  written 
you  a  description  of  the  music  during  the  Holy 
Week,  but  my  journey  to  Naples  intervened,  and 
during  my  stay  there,  I  was  so  constantly  occupied 
in  wandering  among  the  mountains,  and  in  gazing 
at  the  sea,  that  I  had  not  a  moment's  leisure  to 
write  ;  hence  arose  the  delay  fur  which  1  now  beg  to 


MUSIC  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.          169 

apologize.  Since  then  I  have  not  heard  a  single 
note  worth  remembering;  in  Naples  the  mnsic  is 
most  inferior.  During  the  last  two  months,  there- 
fore, I  have  no  musical  reminiscences  to  send  you, 
save  those  of  the  Holy  Week,  which  however  made 
so  indelible  an  impression  on  my  mind,  that  they 
will  be  always  fresh  in  my  memory.  I  already  des- 
cribed to  my  parents  the  effect  of  the  whole  cere- 
monies, and  they  probably  sent  you  the  letter. 

It  was  fortunate  that  1  resolved  to  listen  to  the 
various  Offices  with  earnest  and  close  attention,  and 
still  more  so,  that  from  the  very  first  moment  I  felt 
sensations  of  reverence  and  piety.  I  consider  such 
a  mood  indispensable  for  the  reception  of  new  ideas, 
and  no  portion  of  the  general  effect  escaped  me, 
although  I  took  care  to  watch  each  separate  detail. 

The  ceremonies  commenced  on  Wednesday,  at  half 
past  four  o'clock,  with  the  antiphon  "Zelus  domus 
tua?."  A  little  book  containing  the  Offices  for  the 
Holy  "Week  explains  the  sense  of  the  various  solem- 
nities. "  Each  Xocturn  contains  three  Psalms, 
'•  signifying  that  Christ  died  for  all,  and  also  sym- 
"  bolical  of  the  three  laws,  the  natural,  the  written, 
"  and  the  evangelical.  The  '  Dornine  labia  mea'  and 
"the  LDeus  in  adjutoriunv  were  not  sung  on  this 
"  occasion,  when  the  death  of  our  Saviour  and  Mas- 
"  ter  is  deplored,  as  slain  by  the  hands  of  wicked 
"  godless  men.  The  fifteen  lights  represent  the 
'•twelve  apostles  and  the  three  Marys."  (In  this 
manner  the  book  contains  much  curious  information 
on  this  subject,  so  I  mean  to  bring  it  with  me  for  you.) 
15 


170  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTLRS. 

The  Psalms  are  chanted  fortissimo  by  all  the  male 
voices  of  two  choirs.  Each  verse  is  divided  into 
two  parts,  like  a  question  and  answer,  or  rather, 
classified  into  A  and  13  ;  the  first  chorus  sings  A, 
and  the  second  replies  with  13.  All  the  words,  with 
the  exception  of  the  last,  are  sung-  with  extreme  ra- 
pidity on  one  note,  but  on  the  last  they  make  a  short 
"  melisma,"  which  is  different  in  the  first  and  second 
verse.  The  whole  Psalm,  with  all  its  verses,  is  sung 
on  this  melody,  or  tono  as  they  call  it,  and  I  wrote 
down  seven  of  these  toni,  which  were  employed 
during  the  three  days.  You  cannot  conceive  how 
tiresome  and  monotonous  the  effect  is,  and  how 
harshly  and  mechanically  they  chant  through  the 
Psalms.  The  first  tonns  which  they  sang  was  — 

CORO    I.    f 


In       -      C  -  xus  bum  iu     li  -  mo   pro-fun          -          di 

CORO  II.  f 


c~\" * <* *  -  * « - 

2:~«-«~-: 


et  nun  est  sub-stau       •        tia 

Thus  the  whole  forty-two  verses  of  the  Psalm  are 
Bung  in  precisely  the  same  manner  ;  one  half  of  the 
verse  ending  in  G,  A,  G,  the  other  in  G,  E,  G. 
They  sing  with  the  accent  of  a  number  of  men 
quarrelling  violently,  and  it  sounds  as  if  they  were 
shouting  out  furiously  one  against  another.  The 
closing  words  of  each  Psalm  are  chanted  mere 


MUSIC    OF   TIIE   HOLY    WEEK.  171 

slowly  and  impressively,  a  long  "  triad  "  being  sub- 
stituted for  the  "melisma,"  sung  piano.  For  in- 
stance, this  is  the  first : — 


di    -      li     -   guilt      no     -    men        e     -    ju 


~-Him.  irs~~  —  p          —^ 


ha     -     bi    -     ta    -    bunt      in          e     - 


An  antiphon,  and  sometimes  more  than  one, 
serves  as  an  introduction  to  each  Psalm.  These 
are  generally  sung  by  two  counter-tenor  voices,  in 
canto  fi-rmo,  in  harsh,  hard  tones;  the  first  half  of 
each  verse  in  the  same  style,  and  the  second  respon- 
ded to  by  the  chorus  of  male  voices  that  I  already 
described.  I  have  kept  the  several  antiphons  that 
I  wrote  down,  that  you  may  compare  them  with  the 
book.  On  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  the  GSth, 
60th,  and  Tilth  Psalms  were  sung.  (  By  the  bye, 
this  division  of  the  verses  of  the  Psalms  sung  in 
turns  by  each  chorus,  is  one  of  the  innovations  that 
I'linsvn  has  introduced  into  the  Evangelical  Church 
here:  he  also  ushers  in  each  choral  by  an  antiplion, 
composed  by  Georg.  a  musician  who  resides  here, 
in  the  style  of  canti  ftrmi.  first  sunir  by  a  few 
voices,  succeeded  by  a  choral,  such  as  "Em'  feste 
Burg  ist  miser  Gott.")  After  the  70th  Psalm 
comes  a  paternoster  sub  aileaUu  —  that  is,  all  present 


172  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

stand  up,  and  a  short  silent  inward  prayer  ensues, 
and  a  pause. 

Then  commences  the  first  Lamentation  of  Jere- 
miah, sung  in  a  low  subdued  tone,  in  the  key  of  G 
major,  a  solemn  and  fine  composition  of  Palestrina's 
The  solos  are  chanted  entirely  by  high  tenor  voices, 
swelling  and  subsiding  alternately,  in  the  most  de- 
licate gradations,  sometimes  floating  almost  inau- 
dibly,  and  gently  blending  the  various  harmonies  ; 
being  sung  without  any  bass  voices,  and  immedi- 
ately succeeding  the  previous  harsh  intonation  of  the 
Psalms,  the  effect  is  truly  heavenly.  It  is  rather 
unfortunate  however  that  those  very  parts  which 
ought  to  be  sung  with  the  deepest  emotion  and 
reverence,  being  evidently  those  composed  with 
peculiar  fervour,  should  chance  to  be  merely  the 
title?  of  the  chapter  or  verse,  aleph,  beth,  gimel,  etc., 
and  that  the  beautiful  commencement,  which  sounds 
as  if  it  came  direct  from  Heaven,  should  be  precisely 
on  these  words,  "  Incipit  Lamentatio  Jeremias  Pro- 
phet a,-  Lectio  I."  This  must  be  not  a  little  repul- 
sive to  every  Protestant  heart,  and  if  there  be  any 
design  to  introduce  a  similar  mode  of  chanting  into 
our  churches,  it  appears  to  me  that  this  will  always 
be  a  stumbling-block ;  for  any  one  who  sings 
"chapter  first"  cannot  possibly  feel  any  pious  emo- 
tions, however  beautiful  the  music  may  be,  let  him 
strive  as  he  will. 

My  little  book  indeed  says,  "  Vedendo  profetizzato 
il  crocifiggimento  con  gran  piet&,  si  cantano  eziau- 
dio  molto  lamentevolmente  aleph,  e  le  altre  simili 


MCJSIC    OF    THE    HOLY    WEEK.  173 

parole,  che  sono  le  lettere  dell'  alfabeto  Ebreo, 
1  ere  lie  erano  in  costume  di  porsi  in  ogui  canzone  in 
luugo  di  lamento,  come  e  questa.  Ciascuna  Icttcra 
ha  iu  so,  tutto  il  sentimento  di  quel  versetto  che  la 
segue,  ed  e  come  un  argomeuto  di  esso  ;  "  but  this 
explanation  is  not  worth  much.  After  this  the  Tlst, 
Tliiul,  and  "3rd  Psalms  are  sung-  in  the  same  man- 
ner, with  their  antiphons.  These  are  apportioned 
to  the  various  voices.  The  soprano  begins,  •'  In 
monte  Oiiveti."  on  which  the  bass  voices  chime  in 
forte,  "  Oravit  ad  Patrem  :  Pater,"  etc.  Then  follow 
the  lessons,  from  the  treatise  of  Saint  Augustine  on 
the  Psalms.  The  strange  mode  in  which  these  are 
chanted  appeared  to  me  very  extraordinary  when  I 
heard  them  for  the  first  time  on  Palm  Sunday,  with- 
out knowing  what  it  meant.  A  solitary  voice  is 
heard  reciting  on  one  note,  not  as  in  the  Psalms, 
but  very  slowly  and  impressively,  making  the  tone 
ring  out  clearly. 

There  are  different  cadences  employed  for  the 
(liHerrnt  punctuation  of  the  words,  to  represent  a 
comma,  interrogation,  and  full  stop.  Perhaps  you 
are  already  acquainted  with  these  :  to  me  they  were 
a  novelty,  and  appeared  very  singular.  The  first, 
for  example,  was  chanted  by  a  powerful  bass  voice 
in  G.  If  a  comma  occurs,  he  sings  so,  on  the  last 
word . — 

s —         r^, 

syz=i=»-=*— 11 

_£__JZI ~  u          I  [ 

15 


174  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

an  interroation  thus  : — 


c;)U  -  juu  -  ga.  -  mus  o  -  ra  -    ti  -  o  -  nem. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  how  strange  the  falling 
cadence  from  A  to  C  sounds ;  especially  when  the 
bass  is  followed  by  a  soprano,  who  begins  on  D,  and 
makes  the  same  falling  cadence  from  E  to  G ;  then 
an  alto  does  the  same  in  his  key  ;  for  they  sang 
three  different  lessons  alternately  with  the  canto 
fermo.  I  send  you  a  specimen  of  the  mode  in  which 
they  render  the  canto  fermo,  regardless  both  of  the 
words  and  the  sense.  The  phrase  "better  he  had 
never  been  born  "  was  thus  sung  : — 

TUTTI.    Allegro,  f 

0 ?~_^\ 

Me  -    li  -  us        il  -    li  e    -  rat         si 


9-"-i-^J=4  -~f -~H-  P3: 


tus        noli        in 


MUSIC    OF    THE    HOLY    WEEK.  175 

qnitQ  fortissimo  and  monotonously.  Then  came  the 
Psalms  74.  75.  and  7G.  followed  by  three  lessons, 
succeedi'd  by  the  .Miserere,  sung  in  the  same  style 
as  the  preceding  Psalms,  in  the  following  tonus  :  — 


i     -    ni  -  qui  -  ta   -   tern 


It  will  be  long  before  you  can  improve  on  this. 
Then  followed  Psalms  8,  62.  and  GG  ;  "Canticum 
Moysi  "  in  its  own  tone.  Psalms  148,  149.  and  150 
came  next,  and  then  antiphons.  During  this  time 
the  lights  on  the  altar  are  all  extinguished,  save  one 
which  is  placed  behind  the  altar.  £ix  wax  candles 
still  continue  to  burn  high  above  the  entrance,  the 
rest  of  the  space  is  already  dim.  and  now  the  whole 
chorus  unixuno  intone  with  the  full  strength  of  their 
voices  the  '•  Canticu-rn  Zacharise,"  during  which  the 
last  remaining  lights  are  extinguished.  The  mighty 
swelling  chorus  in  the  gloom,  and  the  solemn  \ibra- 
tion  of  so  many  voices,  have  a  wonderfully  fine 
effect. 


176  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

The  melody  (in  I)  minor)  is  also  very  beautiful. 
At  the  close  all  is  profound  darkness.  An  antiphon 
begins  on  the  sentence,  ''Now  he  that  betrayed  him 
gave  them  a  sign,"  and  continues  to  the  words  "that 
same  is  he,  hold  him  fast."  Then  all  present  fall  on 
their  knees,  and  one  solitary  voice  softly  sings, 
"Cluisius  factus  est  pro  nobis  obediens  usque  ad 
mortem;"  on  the  second  day  is  added,  '-mortem 
autem  crucis;"  and  on  (Jood  Friday.  "  propter 
quod  et  Deus  exaltavit  ilium,  ct  dedit  illi  Nomen, 
quod  est  super  omne  nomen."  A  pause  ensues, 
during  which  each  person  repeats  the  Paternoster 
to  himself.  During  this  silent  prayer,  a  death-like 
si'ence  prevails  in  the  whole  church  ;  presently  the 
Miserere  commences,  with  a  chord  softly  breathed 
by  the  voices,  and  gradually  branching  off  into  two 
choirs.  This  beginning,  and  its  first  harmonious 
vibration,  certainly  made  the  deepest  impression  on 
me.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  previously,  one  voice 
alone  had  been  heard  chanting  almost  without  any 
variety ;  after  the  pause  came  an  admirably  con- 
structed chord,  which  has  the  finest  possible  effect, 
causing  every  one  to  feel  in  their  hearts  the  power 
of  music ;  it  is  this  indeed  that  is  so  striking.  The 
best  voices  are  reserved  for  the  Miserere,  which  is 
sung  with  the  greatest  variety  of  effect,  the  voices 
swelling  and  dying  away,  from  the  softest  piano  to 
the  full  strength  of  the  choir.  No  wonder  that  it 
should  excite  deep  emotion  in  every  heart.  More- 
over they  do  not  neglect  the  power  of  contrast; 
verse  after  verse  being  chanted  by  all  the  male 


MUSIC    OF    THE    HOLY   WEEK.  177 

voices  in  unison,  forle.  and  harshly.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  subsequent  verses,  the  lovely,  rich,  soft 
sounds  of  voices  steal  on  the  ear,  lasting  only  for  a 
shi'i't  space,  and  succeeded  by  a  chorus  of  male 
voices.  During  the  verses  sung  in  monotone,  every 
one  knows  how  beautifully  the  softer  choir  are  about 
to  uplift  their  voices;  soon  they  are  again  heard, 
again  to  die  away  too  quickly,  and  before  the 
thoughts  can  be  collected,  the  service  is  over. 

On  the  first  day.  when  the-  Miserere  of  Baini  was 
given  in  the  key  of  B  miuf-r.  they  sang  thus: — 
"Miserere  mei  Deusv  to  " misericordiam  tuam"  from 
the  music,  with  solo  voices,  two  choirs  using  the 
whole  strength  of  voices  at  their  command;  then  all 
the  bass  singers  commenced  tutti  forte  by  F  sharp, 
chanting  on  that  note  "et  secundum  mult itudiuem'' 
to  •*  iniquitatem  nu-am."  which  is  immediately  suc- 
ceeded by  a  soft  chord  in  B  minor,  and  so  on.  to  the 
last  verse  of  ail.  which  they  sing  with  their  entire 
strength;  a  second  short  silent  prayer  ensues,  when 
all  the  Cardinals  scrape  their  feet  noisily  on  the  pave- 
nvut.  which  betokens  the  close  of  the  ceremony.  My 
little  book  says.  "This  noise  is  symbolical  of  the 
tumult  made  by  the  Hebrews  in  seizing  Christ.''  It 
:r,:iy  lie  so,  but  it  sounded  exactly  like  the  commotion 
iu  the  pit  of  a  theatre,  when  the  beginning  of  a  play 
is  delayed,  or  when  it  is  finally  condemned.  The 
single  taper  still  burning,  is  then  brought  from  behind 
the  altar,  and  all  silently  disperse  by  its  solitary  light. 

On  leaving  the  chapel,  I  must  not  omit-  to  mention 
the  striking  effect  of  the  blazing  chandelier  lighting 


178  MKXDELSSOnx's    LETTKKS. 

up  the  great  vestibule,  when  the  Cardinals  and  their 
attendant  priests  traverse  the  iliumin  ;1ed  t^uirinal 
through  ranks  of  Swiss  Guards.  The  Miserere  sung 
on  the  first  day  was  Baini's,  a  composition  entirely 
devoid  of  life  or  power,  like  all  his  works  ;  still  it  had 
chords  and  music,  and  so  it  made  a  certain  impres- 
sion. 

On  the  second  day  they  gave  some  pieces  by  Al- 
legri  and  Bai.  On  Good  Friday  all  the  music  was 
Bai's.  As  Allegri  composed  only  one  verse,  on 
which  the  rest  are  chanted,  I  heard  the  three  compo- 
sitions which  they  gave  on  that  day.  It  is  however 
quite  immaterial  which  they  sing,  for  the  finbi'.llimcii1  i 
are  pretty  much  the  same  in  all  three.  Karh  chord 
has  its  embe'limento,  thus  very  little  of  the  original 
composition  is  to  be  discovered.  How  these  cinln-Ui- 
mcnti  have  crept  in  they  will  not  say.  It  is  main 
tained  that  they  are  traditional  :  but  this  I  entirely 
disbelieve.  In  the  first  place  no  musical  tradition,  is 
to  be  relied  on;  besides,  how  is  it  p<>.-sib!c  to  carry 
down  a  five-part  movement  to  the  present  time,  from 
mere  hearsay?  It  does  not  sound  like  it.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  they  have  been  more  recently  added  ;  and 
it  appears  to  me  that  the  director,  having  had  good 
high  voices  at  his  command,  and  wishing  to  employ 
them  during  the  Holy  Week,  wrote  down  for  their 
use  ornamental  phrases,  founded  on  the  simple  un- 
adorned chords,  to  enable  them  to  give  full  srope 
and  effect  to  their  voices.  They  certainly  are  not  of 
ancient  date,  but  are  composed  with  infinite  talent 
and  taste,  and  their  effect  is  admirable ;  one  in  par- 


MUSIC  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.          179 

ticular  is  often  repeated,  and  makes  so  deep  an  im- 
pression, that  when  it  begins,  an  evident  excitement 
pervades  all  present  ;  indeed,  in  any  discussion  as  to 
the  mode  of  executing  this  music,  and  when  people 
pay  that  the  voices  do  not  seem  like  the  voices  of 
men.  but  those  of  angels  from  on  high,  and  that  these 
s  n;nds  can  m-ver  be  lu'-ard  elsewhere,  it  is  this  pur- 
lieular  <  'ntl>t'lliin''nl<>  to  which  they  invariably  allude. 
For  example,  in  tlit,  Miserere,  whether  that  of  Bai 
<">r  A'llegri  (i'i>r  thev  .lave  recourse  to  the  same  cm 
bi'lliincn.'i  in  both)  these  are  the  coiisecutive 
chords : — 


Instead  of  this,  thev  sing  it  so  :- 

v  O 


CV'TTI  l-^— I    "&'[      "^ 

3s&  z3 


The    soprano  intones  the  liiu;h   ('  in  a  pure  soft 
voice,  allowing1   it    to  viliraic   for   a  lime,  and   slow'y 
•rlidiui:  down,  while  the  alto  holds  the  (_'  steadily,  so 
thai  at  first  I  was  under  the  delusion    that    the  hiuh 
('  was  still   held  by  the  soprano;  the  skill,  loo.  will) 
which  the  harmony  is  gradually  developed,  is  truly 
admiraMe.     The  other  embHlimeiifi  are  achpted   in 
Ihe   same   way   to   llie   consecutive   chords;   but   1l:e 
lirsi  one  is  by  far  Ihe  most  beautiful.     J  can  uive  no 
opinion  a-  to  the  particular  mode  of  executing  iho. 
inr.sic;  but  what  1  once  read,  that   some  particular 
acoustic  contrivance  caused  (he  continued  vibration 
of  the  sounds,  is  an  entire  fable,  quite  as  much  so  as 
the  assertion  that  they  sin:r  from  tradiiioii.  and  with- 
out  any  (ixed    time,  one   voice   simply  following  the 
oilier:  for  I  saw  plainly  enough  the  shadow  of  Hariri's 
l.<nL'-  arm  moving  up  and  down  :  indeed,  he  sometimes 
Struck    'iis   music-desk    (jiiite  audibly.       There   is    no 
lack  of  mystery  too.  on   the  part    of  the  singers  and 
-'liers:    for    example.    I  hey    never    sav    Itel'orehand 
\\hat    particular    Miserere    they   intend    to    sinir.  but 
that    it  will    be   decided    at   the   moment,   etc..   etc. 
The  key  in  which  they  sing,  depends  on  the  purity 


MCSIf!    OF    TOE    HOLY    WEEK.  181 

of  ihe  voices.  rl'!ie  first  day  it  was  in  B  minor,  the 
second  and  third  in  E  minor,  but  each  time  they 
finished  almost  in  ]!  liat  minor. 

The  chief  soprano,  Mariano,  came  from  the  moun- 
tains to  Rome  expressly  to  sing  on  this  occasion, 
and  it  is  to  him  I  owe  hearing  the  embeliimenli  with 
their  highest  notes.  However  careful  and  attentive 
the  singers  may  be,  still  the  negligence  and  bad 
habits  of  the  whole  previous  year  have  their  revenge, 
consequently  the  most  fearful  dissonance  sometimes 
occurs. 

1  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  on  the  Thursday, 
when  the  Miserere  was  about  to  begin,  1  clambered 
up  a  ladder  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  was  thus 
placed  close  to  the  roof  of  the  chapel,  so  that  I 
had  the  music,  the  priests,  and  the  people  far  be- 
neath me  in  gloom  and  shadow.  Seated  thus  alone 
without  the  vicinity  of  any  obtrusive  stranger,  the 
impression  made  on  me  was  very  profound.  But  to 
proceed  :  you  must  have  had  more  than  enough  of 
Misereres  in  these  pages,  and  I  intend  to  bring  you 
more  particular  details,  both  verbal  and  written. 

On  Thursday,  at  half-past  ten  o'clock,  High  Mass 
was  celebrated.  They  sang  an  eight-part  composi- 
tion of  Fazzini's,  in  no  way  remarkable.  I  reserve 
for  you  some  ca nti  fi-rmi  and  antiphons,  which  I 
wrote  down  at  the  time,  and  my  little  book  describes 
the  order  of  the  various  services  and  the  meaning  ot 
the  different  ceremonies.  At  the  "  Gloria  in  Kxccl- 
sis"  all  the  bells  in  Home  peal  forth,  and  are  not 
rung  again  till  after  Good  Friday.  The  hours  are 
16 


182  MEXDELSSOHX'S    LETTERS. 

marker!  in  the  churches  by  wooden  clappers.  The 
words  of  ihe  "Gloria."  the  signal  for  all  the  strange 
tiimiilt  of  liells.  were  chanted  from  the  altar  by  old 
Cardinal  Pacca,  in  a  feeble  trembling  voice;  this 
being  succeeded  by  the  choirs  and  all  the  bells,  had  a 
striking  effect.  After  the  "Credo''  they  sang  the 
"  Fratres  ego  enim"  of  Palcstrina,  but  in  the  most 
unfinished  and  careless  manner.  The  washing  of 
the  pilgrims'  feet  followed,  and  a  procession  in  which 
all  the  singers  join  ;  liaini  beating  time  from  a  large 
book  carried  before  him,  making  signs  first  to  one, 
and  then  to  another,  while  the  singers  pressed  for- 
ward to  look  at  the  mu.-ic.  counting  the  time  as  they 
walked,  and  then  chiming  in. — the  Pope  being  borne 
aloft  in  his  state  chair.  All  this  1  have  already  de- 
scribed to  my  parents. 

In  the  evening  there  were  Psalms,  Lamentations, 
Lessons,  and  the  Miserere  again,  scarcely  differing 
from  those  of  the  previous  day.  One  lesson  was 
chanted  by  a  soprano  solo  on  a  peculiar  melody,  that 
J  mean  to  bring  home  with  me.  It  is  an  adagio,  in 
long-drawn  notes,  and  la>ts  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at 
least.  There  is  no  pause  in  the  music,  and  the 
melody  lies  very  high,  and  yet  it  was  executed  with 
the  most  pure,  clear,  and  even  intonation.  The 
singer  did  not  drop  his  tone  so  much  as  a  single 
comma,  the  very  last  notes  swelling  and  dying  away 
as  even  and  full  as  at.  the  beginning;  it  was,  indeed,  a 
masterly  performance.  1  was  struck"  with  the  meaning 
they  attach  to  the  word  ctppo'jyiuttii'a.  If  the  melody 
goes  from  C  to  D,  or  from  C  to  E,  they  sing  thus  : — 


MUSIC  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.          183 


or     t  —     —  <  — 

rrj 


and  this  they  call  an  appoggtatura,  "Whatever  they 
may  choose  to  designate  it.  the  effect  is  most  dis- 
agreeable, and  it  must  require  long  habit  not  to  be 
discomposed  by  this  strange  practice,  which  reminds 
mo  very  nuich  of  our  old  women  at  home  in  church  ; 
moreover  the-  effect  is  the  same.  I  saw  in  my  book 
t'a.it  the  ••  Tenebnu''  was  to  lie  sung-,  and  thinking 
that  it  \vn;;]<i  interest  you  to  know  lu.iv,-  it  is  given  in 
the  Papal  chapel.  1  was  on  the  watch  with  a  sharp- 
pointed  pencil  when  it  commenced,  and  send  yon 
herewith  the  principal  parts.  It  was  sunjr  very 
quick,  and  fni-t<:  throughout,  without  exception. 
The  bi'iriuniim1  was  : — - 


Te     -      ne  -  bra  fac 


T^TV 2 T jfi '-  —  . i 1 


dum 


sum  Ja    -        dss    -        i. 


184 
Then 


MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 


2LJZ rJ~ '       : ••*»_ '-C~mc~—  ~~^T-~~ 

i 

I 


Do     -      us  me       -       -        us,  ut      quid         me 


a:—*  >-»-?-?=:**- 

2l 

j  _  iznw^i^.^^*  __  ^<^  . 

ue  re    -        li         -  qui  -     sti] 

SOPKA.M./. 


maus  Je  -  sus    vo 


maz  -   na  a  -    it : 


ter,  in    ma    - 


_|t '        f f * I ?_1"_1? • I *    '      * '----i 

iius      tu    -     a.s  com  -  men  -  do  spi   -     ri  -  turn 


I  cannot  help  it,  but  I  own  it  does  irritate  me  to 
hear  such  holy  and  touching'  words  sung  to  such 
dull,  dra\vliug  mutic.  They  say  it  is  canto  fernio, 


JirSIC    OF    THE    Iini.T    WEEK.  1S5 

Gregorian,  etc.:  no  matter.  If  at  that  period  there 
was  neither  the  feeling  nor  the  capability  to  write 
in  u  different  style,  at  all  events  we  have  now  the 
power  to  do  so.  and  certainly  this  mechanical  mo- 
notonv  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  scriptural  words  ; 
they  are  ail  truth  and  freshness.,  and  moreover  ex- 
pressed in  the  most  simple  and  natural  manner. 
Why  then  make  them  sound  like  a  mere  formula'! 
and.  in  truth,  such  singing  as  this  is  nothing  more  ! 
The  word  "Pater'' with  a  little  flourish,  tin?  "meum" 
with  a  little  shake,  the  "lit  quid  me" — can  this  lie 
called  sacred,  music  '.'  There  is  certainly  no  false 
expression  in  it.  because  there  is  none  of  any  kind; 
but  does  not  tlrs  very  fact  prove  the  desecratjon  of 
the  words?  A  hundred  times  during  the  ceremony 
I  was  driven  wild  by  such  things  as  these;  and  then 
came  people  in  a  state  of  ecstasy,  saying  how  splen- 
did it  had  all  been.  This  sounded  to  me  like  a  bad 
joke,  and  yet  they  were  quite  in  earnest  ! 

At  Mass  early  on  Friday  morning,  the  chapel  is 
stripped  of  all  its  decorations,  the  altar  uncovered, 
and  the  Pope  and  Cardinals  in  mourning.  The 
'•Passion."  from  ^t.  John,  was  sung1,  composed  by 
Vittoria.  but  the  words  of  the  people  in  the  clients 
alone  are  his.  the  rest  are  chanted  according  to  an  es- 
tablished formula:  but  more  of  this  hereafter.  The 
whole  appeared  to  me  too  trivial  and  monotonous. 
I  was  quite  out  of  humour,  and.  in  fact,  dissatisfied 
with  tiie  a'l'air  altogether.  One  of  the  two  following 
modes  ought  to  be  adopted.  The  "  Passion  "  ought 
either  to  be  recited  quietly  by  the  priest,  as  St. 
16*" 


186  MEXDELSSOIIX'S    LETTERS. 

John  relates  it,  in  which  case  there  is  no  occasion 
(or  the  chorus  to  sing  "Crucifige  eum."  nor  for  tlie 
alto  to  represent  Pilate — or  else  the  scene  should  be 
so  thoroughly  realized,  that  it  ought  to  make  me  feel 
as  if  I  were  actually  present,  and  saw  it  all  myself. 
In  that  event,  Pilate  ought  to  sing  just  as  he  would 
have  spoken,  the  chorus  shout  out  ••  Crucifigc  "  in  a 
tone  anything  but  sacred  ;  and  then,  through  the 
impress  of  entire  truth,  and  the  dignity  of  the  object 
represented,  the  singing  would  become  sacred  church 
music. 

I  require  no  under-current  of  thought  when  I  hear 
music,  which  is  not  to  me  "a  mere  medium  to  elevate 
the  mind  to  piety,"  as  they  say  here,  but  a  distinct 
language  speaking  plainly  to  me  ;  for  though  the 
sense  is  expressed  by  the  words,  it  is  equally  con- 
tained in  the  music.  This  is  the  case  with  the 
'•Passion"  of  Sebastian  Bach;  but  as  they  sing  it 
here,  it  is  very  imperfect,  being  neither  a  simple 
narrative,  nor  yet  a  grand  solemn  dramatic  truth. 
The  chorus  sings  ••  Burabbam  "  to  the  same  sacred 
chords  as  "et  in  terra  pax."  Pilate  speaks  exactly 
in  the  same;  manner  as  the  Evangelist.  The  voice 
that  represents  our  blessed  Saviour  commences 
always  piano,  in  order  to  have  one  definite  distinc- 
tion, but  when  the  chorus  breaks  loose,  shouting  out 
their  sacred  chords,  it  seems  entirely  devoid  of 
meaning.  Pray  forgive  these  strictures.  I  now 
proceed  to  simple  narration  again.  The  Evangelist 
is  a  tenor,  and  the  nicde  of  chanting,  the  same  as 
that  of  the  Lessuus.  with  a  peculiar  falling  cadence 


MUSIC    OF    THE    HOLY    WEEK.  187 

at  the  comma,  interrogation,  and  full  stop.     The 
Evangelist  intones  on  I),  and  sings  thus   at  a  full 

stop  :  — 

Allay  io.       ^ 


at  a  comma  : 


and   at   the    conclusion,    when    another    personage 
enters,  so  :  —  • 


]i-  --  g- 

zl.l  _  ; 


=,^=.  ===!.=s=f== 

^i~  ^ 

: : :_ ~ t 

E  -  -  -go 

I  could  not  catch  the  formula,  though  I  noted  down 
several  parts,  which  I  can  show  you  when  I  return  : 
among  others,  the  words  spoken  on  the  Cross.  All 
the  other  personages, — Pilate,  Peter,  the  Maid,  and 
the  High  Priest, — are  altos,  and  sing  this  melody 
only  :— 


lOO  MENDELSSOHN  S   LETTERS. 

The  chorus  sings  the  words  of  the  people  from 
their  places  above,  while  everything  else  is  sung 
from  the  altar.  I  must  really  mark  down  here  as  a 
curiosity  the  "  Crucifige,"  just  as  I  noted  it  at  the 
time  :— 

Allegro. 

~  &        h~~ I 

Cm      -      ci     -        fl   - 


^ J 1_         I 


The  "  ISurabbnm"  too  is  most  singular; — very 
tame  Jews  indeed  !  ]>nt  my  letter  is  already  tou 
long,  so  I  shall  discuss  the  subject  no  further. 
Prayers  arc  then  offered  up  for  all  nations  and  insti- 
tutions, eaeli  separately  designated.  When  the 
prayer  for  I  lie  Jews  is  uttered,  no  one  kneels,  as 
they  do  at  all  lire  others,  nor  is  Amen  said.  They 
pray  pro  perfidis  ./«</av,s-,  and  the  author  ol  my 
book  discovers  an  explanation  of  this  also.  Then 
follows  the  Adoration  of  the  Cross;  a  small  crucifix 


ML'SK-    OF    THE    HOLY    WEKK.  18P 

h  }-':-c-  d  in  the  centre  of  the  chapel,  and  all  up. 
pnvi'-h  barefooted  (without  shoes),  fall  down  before 
ii  and  kiss  it;  during  this  time  the  "Improperia" 
are  sung.  1  have  only  once  heard  this  composition, 
but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  Palestrina's  finest 
works,  and  they  sing  it  with  remarkable  enthusiasm. 
There  is  surprising  delicacy  and  harmony  in  its 
execution  by  the  choir  ;  they  are  careful  to  place 
every  passage  in  its  proper  light,  and  to  render  it 
sufficiently  prominent  without  making  it  loo  con- 
spicuous —  one  chord  blending  softly  with  the  other. 
Moreover,  the  ceremony  is  very  solemn  and  digni- 
ii''d,  and  the  most  profound  silence  reigns  in  the 
chapel. 

They  sing  the  oft-recurring  Creek  "Holy"  in 
the  most  admirable  manner,  each  time  with  the 
same  sit  oothness  and  expression.  You  will  be  not 
a  little  surprised,  however,  when  you  see  it  written 
down,  for  they  sing  as  follows  •  — 


f  * 

\\  **  '-       -"T  u~  :  s=^-"^~"" 


A     •    gi  -  os        0          The 
* 

p  -'*- 


190  MEXDELSSOIIN'S  LETTERS. 

CORO  II.       f\ 

-+-.     +  *-      ** 


.Da  Capo  3 


Such  passages  as  that  at  the  commencement, 
where  all  the  voices  sing  the  very  same  embellish 
ment,  repeatedly  occur,  and  the  ear  becomes  ac- 
customed to  them.  The  effect  of  the  whole  is 
undoubtedly  superb.  I  only  wish  you  could  hear 
the  tenors  in  the  first  chorus,  and  the  mode  in  which 
they  take  the  high  A  on  the  word  "Theos;"  the 
note  is  so  long-drawn  and  ringing,  though  softly 
breathed,  that  it  sounds  most  touching.  This  is 
repeated  again  and  again  till  all  in  the  chapel  have 
performed  the  Adoration  of  the  Cross;  but  as  on 
ibis  occasion  the  crowd  was  not  very  great,  J  un- 
luckily hud  not  the  opportunity  of  hearing  it  as 
often  as  T  could  have  wished. 

I  quite  understand  why  the  "  Improperias  "  pro- 
duced the  strongest  effect  on  Goethe,  for  they  are 
nearly  the  most  faultless  of  all,  as  both  music  and 
ceremonies,  and  everything  connected  with  them, 
are  in  the  most  entire  harmony.  A  procession  fol- 
lows to  fetch  the  Host,  which  had  been  exposed  and 


.Ml'SIO    OF    THE    HOLY    WEEK.  191 

adored  on  the  previous  evening  in  another  chapel  of 
the  Quirinal.  lighted  up  by  many  hundred  wax-lights. 
The  morning  service  closed  at  half-past  one  with  a 
hymn  in  canto  fcnno.  At  half-past  three  in  the 
afternoon  the  iirst  nocturn  began,  with  the  Psalms, 
Lessons,  etc.  I  corrected  what  I  had  written 
down,  heard  the  Miserere  of  Baini,  and  about  seven 
o'clock  followed  the  Cardinals  home  through  the 
illuminated  vestibule — so  all  was  now  seen,  and  all 
was  now  over. 

1  was  anxious,  dear  Professor,  to  describe  the 
Holy  Week  to  you  minutely,  as  they  were  memora- 
ble days  to  me,  every  hour  bringing  with  it  some- 
thing interesting  and  long  anticipated.  I  also 
particularly  rejoiced  in  feeling  that,  in  spite  of  the 
excitement  and  the  numerous  discussions  in  praise 
or  blame,  the  solemnities  made  as  vivid  an  impres- 
sion on  me,  as  if  I  had  been  quite  free  from  all 
previous  prejudice  or  prepossession.  I  thus  saw  the 
inith  confirmed,  that  perfection,  even  in  a  sphere 
tli'-  most  foreign  to  us,  leaves  its  own  stamp  on  the 
mind.  May  you  read  this  long  letter  with  even  half 
the  pleasure  1  feel  in  recalling  the  period  of  the 
Holy  Week  at  Home. 

Yours  faithfully, 
FELIX  MENDELSSOHN  BARTIIOLDT. 


192 

Florence,  June  2.5th,  1831. 
Dear  Sisters, 

(Ju  such  a  day  as  this  iny  paternal  home  and  those 
I  love  are  much  in  my  thoughts  ;  rny  feelings  on 
this  point  are  rather  singular.  If  1  feel  at  anytime 
utnvell,  or  fatigued,  or  out  of  humour,  I  have  no 
particular  longing  for  my  own  home  or  for  my 
family;  hut  when  brighter  days  ensue,  when  every 
hour  makes  an  indeliltle  impression,  and  every 
moment  brings  with  it  glad  and  pleasant  sensations 
then  I  ardently  wish  that  I  were  with  you,  or  you 
wiih  me  ;  and  no  minute  passes  without  my  thinking 
of  one  or  other  of  you,  to  whom  I  have  something 
pai'iicular  to  say. 

I  have  to-day  passed  the  whole  forenoon,  from  ten 
till  three,  in  the  gallery  ;  it  was  glorious  !  Besides 
all  the  beautiful  work  I  sa\v,  from  which  so  much 
fresh  benefit  is  always  to  be  derived,  I  wandered 
about  among  the  pictures,  feeling  so  much  sympathy, 
and  such  kindly  emotions  in  gazing  at  them.  ]  now 
iirst  thoroughly  realized  the  great  charm  of  a  large 
collection  of  the  highest  works  of  art.  You  pass 
from  one  to  the  other,  sitting  and  dreaming  for  an 
hour  before  some  picture, and  then  on  to  the  next. 

Yesterday  was  a  holiday  here,  so  to-day  the  Pa- 
la/./.o  degli  LTii/i  was  crowded  with  people  who  had 
coup1  into  the  citv  to  see  the  races,  and  to  visit  the 
far-lamed  gallery:  chiefly  peasants,  male  and  female, 
in  their  country  costumes.  All  the  apartments 
were  thrown  open,  and  as  I  was  about  to  contcm- 


193 

plate  them  for  the  last  t'me.  I  contrived  to  slip 
quk'tly  through  the  crowd,  and  to  remain  quite 
solitary,  for  I  kne\v  that  I  had  not  one  acquaintance 
ar.jong  them. 

The  busis  of  the  various  princes  who  founded  and 
enriched  this  collection,  are  placed  near  the  entrance, 
at  the  t»p  of  the  staircase.  1  suppose  I  must  have 
been  peculiarly  susceptible  to-day,  for  the  faces  of 
th"  Medici  interested  me  exceedingly;  they  looked 
?o  noble  and  refined,  so  proud  and  so  dignified.  I 
stood  looking  at  them  for  a  long  time,  and  imprinted 
on  my  memory  those  countenances  of  world-wide 
renown. 

I  then  went  to  the  Tribune.  This  room  is  so  de- 
lightfully smaH  you  can  traverse  it  in  fifteen  paces, 
and  yet  it  contains  a  world  of  art.  I  again  sought 
out  my  favourite  armchair,  which  stands  under  the 
statue  of  the  "  .Slave  Whetting  his  Knife"  (L'Arro- 
tiu'j).  ami  taking  possession  of  it,  1  enjoyed  myself 
for  a  couple  of  hours  ;  for  here,  at  one  glance,  I  had 
the  ''Madonna  del  Cardellino.""  Pope  Julius  II.,"  a 
fvinale  portrait  by  Raphael,  and  above  it  a  lovely 
Holy  Family,  by  Porugino  ;  and  so  close  to  me  that 
I  could  have  touched  the  statue  with  my  hand,  the 
Venus  do'  Medici;  beyond,  that  of  Titian;  on  the 
other  side,  the  "Apollino"  and  the  "Wrestlers" 
(L'.-tta'ori]  ;  in  front  of  the  Raphael,  the  merry 
Greek  Dancing  Faun,  who  seems  to  feel  an  uncouth 
delight  in  discordant  music,  for  the  fellow  has  just 
struck  two  cymbals  together,  and  is  listening  to  the 
suuiid,  while  treading  with  his  foot  on  a  kind  of 
17 


194  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Pan's  pipes,  as  an  accompaniment  :  what  a  clown  he 
is!  The  space  between  is  occupied  by  other  pic- 
tures of  Raphael's,  a  portrait  by  Titian,  a  Domeni- 
chino,  etc.,  and  all  these  within  the  circumference  of 
a  small  semicircle,  no  larger  than  one  of  your  own 
rooms.  This  is  a  spot  where  a  man  feels  his  own 
insignificance,  and  may  well  learn  to  be  humble. 

I  occasionally  walked  through  the  other  rooms, 
where  a  large  picture  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  only 
commenced  and  sketched  in,  with  all  its  wild  dashes 
and  strokes,  is  very  suggestive.  1  was  especially 
struck  with  the  genius  of  the  monk  Fra  Bartolom- 
meo,  who  must  have  been  a  man  of  the  most  devout, 
tender,  and  earnest  spirit.  There  is  a  small  picture 
of  his  here,  which  1  discovered  for  myself.  ]t  is 
about  the  size  of  this  sheet  of  paper,  in  two  divisions, 
and  represents  the  "  Adoration"  and  the  "  Presenta- 
tion in  the  Temple."  The  figures  are  about  two- 
thirds  of  a  finger-length  in  size,  but  finished  in  the 
most  exquisite  and  consummate  manner,  with  the 
most  brilliant  colouring,  the  brightest  decorations, 
and  in  the  most  genial  sunshine.  You  can  see  in 
the  picture  itself,  that  the  pious  maestro  has  taken 
delight  in  painting  it,  and  in  finishing  the  most  mi- 
nute details;  probably  with  the  view  of  giving  it 
away,  to  gratify  some  friend.  AVe  feel  as  if  the 
painter  belonged  to  it,  and  still  ought  to  be  sitting 
before  his  work,  or  had  only  this  moment  left  it.  I 
felt  the  same  with  regard  to  many  pictures  to-day, 
especially  that  of  the  •'Madonna  del  Cardeilino," 
which  Raphael  painted  as  a  wedding-gift,  and  a  sur- 


PORTRAITS    OF    THE    GRFAT    1  MXTERS.  195 

prise  for  his  friend  I  could  not  help  meditating  on 
all  these  "Teat  men,  so  long-  passed  away  from  earth, 
though  their  whole  inner  soul  is  still  displayed  in 
such  lustre  to  us,  and  to  all  the  world. 

AVhile  reflecting  on  these  things,  I  came  by  chance 
into  the  room  containing  the  portraits  of  great 
painters.  I  formerly  merely  regarded  them  in  the 
light  of  valuable  curiosities,  for  there  are  more 
than  three  hundred  portraits,  chiefly  painted  by  the 
masters  themselves,  so  that  you  see  at  the  same 
moment  the  man  and  his  work  ;  but  to-day  a  fresh 
idea  dawned  on  me  with  regard  to  them, — that  each 
painter  resembles  his  own  productions,  and  that 
each  while  painting  his  own  likeness,  has  been  care- 
ful to  represent  himself  just  as  he  really  was.  In 
this  way  you  become  personally  acquainted  with  all 
these  great  men.  and  thus  a  new  light  is  shed  on 
many  things.  1  will  discuss  this  point  more  minutely 
with  you  when  we  meet  ;  but  I  must  not  omit  to 
say.  that  the  portrait  of  Raphael  is  almost  the  most 
touching  likeness  1  have  yet  seen  of  him.  In  the 
centre  of  a  large  rich  screen,  entirely  covered  with 
portraits,  hangs  a  small  solitary  picture,  without 
any  particular  designation,  but  the  eye  is  instantly 
arrested  bv  it  :  this  is  Raphael — youthful,  very  pale 
and  delicate,  and  with  such  onward  aspirations, 
such  longing  and  wisti'ulness  in  the  mouth  and  eyes, 
that  it  is  as  if  you  could  see  into  his  very  soul. 
That  he  cannot  succeed  in  expressing  all  that  he 
sees  and  feels,  and  is  thus  impelled  to  go  forward, 
and  that  he  must  die  an  early  death, — all  this  ia 


19G  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

written  on  his  mournful,  suffering1,  yet  fervid  coun- 
tenance, and  when  looking  at  his  dark  eyes,  which 
glance  at  you  out  of  the  very  depths  of  his  soul, 
and  at  the  pained  and  contracted  mouth,  you  cannot 
resist  a  feeling  of  awe. 

How  I  wish  you  could  see  the  portrait  that  han~" 
above  it  ;  that  of  Michael  Angelo.  an  ugly,  muscular, 
savage,  rugged  fellow,  in  all  the  vigour  (.if  life,  look- 
ing gruff  and  morose;  and  on  the  other  side  a  wise, 
grave  man,  with  the  aspect  of  a  lion,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci;  but  you  cannot  see  this  portrait,  and  I  will 
not  describe  it  in  writing,  but  tell  you  of  it  when  we 
meet.  Believe  me,  however,  it  is  truly  glorious. 
Then  I  passed  on  to  the  Niobe.  which  of  all  sta1r.es 
makes  the  greatest  impression  on  me;  and  back 
again  to  my  painters,  and  to  the  Tribune,  and 
through  the  Corridors,  where  the  Roman  Kmperors, 
with  their  dignified  yet  knavish  physiognomies, 
stare  you  in  the  face;  and  last  of  all  I  took  a  linal 
leave  of  the  Medici  family. 

]t  was  indeed  a  morning  never  to  be  forgotten. 

June  a6th. 

Do  not  suppose  however  that  I  mean  to  asseri 
that  all  days  are  spent  thus.  You  must  battle  your 
way  through  the  present  living  mob,  before  you  can 
arrive  at  the  nobility,  long  since  dead,  and  those 
who  have  not  a  strong  arm  are  sure  to  come  badly 
off  in  the  conflict.  Such  a  journey  as  mine  from 
Rome  to  Perugia,  and  on  here,  is  no  joke.  Jean 
Paul  says  that  the  presence  of  a  person  who  openly 


THE    KOMAX    TETTURTXO.  19  t 

hates  you  is  most  painful  and  oppressive.  Stch  a 
being  is  the  Reman  cclturiito:  lie  grants  you  no 
sleep  ;  expose?  you  to  hunger  and  thirst ;  at  night, 
when  he  is  hound  to  provide  you  with  your  prcmzo, 
he  contrives  that  you  shall  not  arrive  till  midnight, 
when  every  one  is  of  course  asleep,  and  you  are 
only  too  thankful  to  get  a  bed.  In  the  morning  he 
sets  off  before  four  o'clock,  and  rests  his  horses  at 
noon  for  five  hours,  but  invariably  in  some  solitary 
little  wayside  inn.  where  nothing  is  to  be  had.  Each 
day  he  makes  out  about  six  German  miles,  and 
drives  piano,  while  the  sun  b\nn$  fortissimo. 

I  was  very  badly  oil'  owing  to  all  this,  for  my 
fellow-travellers  were  far  from  being  congenial  ; 
three  Jesuits  inside,  and  in  the  cabriolet,  where  I 
particularly  desired  to  sit.  a  most  disagreeable  Ve- 
netian hidy.  If  I  wished  to  escape  from  her.  I  was 
obliged  to  go  inside,  and  listen  to  the  praises  of 
Charles  X..  and  to  hear  that  Ariosto  ought  to  have 
been  burnt  as  a  corrupt  writer,  subversive  of  all 
morality.  It  was  still  worse  outside,  and  we  never 
seemed  to  get  en.  The  first  day.  after  a  journey  of 
four  hours,  the  axletree  broke,  and  we  were  obliged 
to  remain  for  nine  hours  in  the  same  house  in  the 
Campairna  where  we  chanced  to  be.  and  at  last  to 
stay  all  night.  If  there  was  a  church  on  the  road 
that  we  had  an  opportunity  of  visiting,  the  most 
beautiful  and  devotional  creations  of  Peruginn,  or 
Giotto,  or  C'invibue,  enchanted  our  eyes;  and  >o  we 
passed  from  irritation  to  delight,  and  then  to  irrita- 
tion again.  This  was  a  wretched  state  to  be  in.  ] 
IT* 


198  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

was  net  in  the  least  amused  by  it  all  ;  and  if  Xutiire 
had  not  bestowed  on  us  bright  moonshine  at  the 
Lake  of  Thrusymene.  and  if  the  scenery  had  not 
been  so  wonderfully  line,  and  if  in  every  town  we 
had  not  seen  a  superb  church,  and  if  we  had  not 
passed  through  a  large  city  each  day  as  we  journeyed 
on.  and  if — but  you  sec1  1  am  not  easily  satisfied. 

The  route  however  was  beautiful,  and  I  must  new 
describe  my  arrival  in  Florence,  which  also  includes 
my  whole  Italian  life  of  the  previous  days.  At  In- 
cisa.  hali'  a  day's  journey  from  Florence,  my  rcttii- 
rtno  became  so  intolerable  from  his  insolence  and 
abuse,  that  I  found  it  necessary  to  take  out  my 
luggage,  and  to  tell  him  to  drive  to  the  devil, — which 
he  accordingly  did,  rather  against  his  will. 

It  was  Midsummer's  day.  and  a  celebrated  fete 
was  to  take  place  in  Florence  the  same  evening, 
which  I  would  on  no  account  \\ha1ever  have  misled. 
This  is  just  the  kind  of  thing  that  the  Italians  take 
advantage  of,  so  the  landlady  at  Jncisa  offered  me  a 
carriage  at  four  times  the  proper  fare.  When  1  re- 
fused to  take  it,  she  said  1  might  try  to  procure 
another;  and  sol  accordingly  did.  but  found  that  no 
carriages  for  hire  were  to  be  had,  only  post-horses. 
I  went  to  the  Post,  and  was  there  told,  to  my  dis- 
gust, that  they  were  at  my  landlady's,  and  that  she 
had  wished  to  mala1  me  pay  an  exorbitant  price  for 
them.  1  went  back  and  demanded  horses.  .She 
said,  if  1  did  not  choose  to  pay  what  she  asked,  I 
should  have  none.  I  desired  to  see  the  regulations, 
which  they  are  all  obliged  to  have.  She  said  there 


HIRING    A    CARRIAGE.  199 

ivftR  no  occasion  to  show  them,  and  turned  her  back 
on  me.  The  use  of  physical  strength,  which  plays  a 
great  part  here,  was  resorted  to  by  me  on  this  occa- 
sion, fur  I  seized  her  and  pushed  her  back  into  a 
room  (fur  we  were  standing  in  the  passage)  and  then 
hurried  down  the  street  to  the  Podesta.  It  turned 
out  however  that  there  was  no  such  person  in  the 
town,  but  that  he  lived  four  miles  off.  The  affair 
becamo  every  instant  more  disagreeable,  the  crowd 
of  boys  at  my  heels  increasing  at  every  step.  Fortu- 
n.iteiy  a  decent-looking  man  came  up.  to  whom  the 
mob  seemed  to  show  some  respect  ;  so  I  accosted 
him.  and  explained  all  that  had  occurred.  He  sym- 
pathized with  me.  and  took  me  to  a  vine-dresser's 
who  had  a  little  carriage  for  hire. 

The  whole  crowd  now  congregated  before  his  door, 
many  pressing  forward  into  the  hor.se  after  me.  and 
shouting  that  I  was  mad  :  but  the  carriage  drove  up, 
atu;  1  threw  a  few  scudi  to  an  old  beggar,  on  which 
they  all  called  out  that  I  was  a  bravo  S-'i'jnore,  and 
•\\ished  me  bnon  via<j<jio.  The  moderate  price  the 
man  demanded  more  fully  showed  me  the  abominable 
overcharge  of  the  landlady.  The  carriage  was  easy, 
and  the  horses  went  on  at  a  good  pace,  and  so  we 
travelled  across  the  hiils  to  Florence.  In  the  course 
of  half  an  hour  we  overtook  my  lazy  vetturino.  I 
put  up  my  umbrella  to  defend  me  from  the  sun.  and 
I  scarcely  ever  travelled  so  pleasantly  and  so  com- 
fortably as  during  those  few  hours,  having  left  all 
annoyances  behind  me,  and  before  me  the  prospect 
of  the  beautiful  fete. 


200  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Very  soon  the  Duomo,  and  the  hundreds  of  villas 
scattered  through  the  valleys,  were  visible.  Once 
more  we  passed  by  decorated  terraces,  and  the  tops 
of  trees  seen  over  them;  the  Arno  valley  looking 
lovelier  than  ever.  And  so  I  arrived  here  in  good 
spirits  and  dined  ;  and  even  while  doing  so  1  heard  a 
tumult,  and  looking  out  of  the  window  I  saw  crowds, 
both  young  and  old,  all  hurrying  in  their  holiday 
costumes  across  the  bridges. 

I  followed  them  to  the  Corso,  and  then  to  the 
races;  afterwards  to  the  illuminated  Pergola,  and 
last  of  all  to  a  masked  ball  in  the  Goldoni  Theatre. 
At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  went  towards  home, 
thinking  that  the  whole  affair  was  over;  but  the 
Arno  was  still  covered  with  gondolas,  illuminated  by 
coloured  lamps,  and  crossing  each  other  in  every 
direction.  Under  the  bridge  a  large  ship  was  pass 
ing,  hung  with  green  lanterns  :  the  water  shone 
brightly  as  it  rippled  along,  while  a  still  brighter 
moon  looked  down  on  the  whole  scene.  I  recalled 
to  myself  the  various  occurrences  of  the  day,  and 
the  thoughts  that  had  chased  each  other  through 
my  mind,  and  resolved  to  write  them  all  to  you.  It 
is  in  fact  a  reminiscence  for  myself,  for  it  may  not  be 
so  suggestive  to  you,  but  it  will  one  day  be  of  ser- 
vice to  me,  enabling  me  to  recall  various  scenes 
connected  with  fair  Italy. 


LETTER    TO    FRAU    VOX    PEREIRA.  201 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  TO  FRAU  vox  PEREIRA, 

IX    VlEXXA. 

Genoa,  July,  1831. 

At  first  I  resolved  not  to  answer  your  letter  until 
I  had  fulfilled  your  injunctions,  and  composed 
'•  Xu|>oleon'.s  Midnight  llevu-w  ; ''  and  now  I  have 
to  ask  your  forgiveness  fur  not  having  done  so, 
but  there  is  u  pi'euliarity  in  this  matter  ]  take 
music  in  a  very  serious  light,  and  1  consider  it  qui.e 
inadmissible  to  compose  anything  that  I  do  net 
thoroughly  feel.  It  is  just  as  if  I  were  to  utter  a 
falsehood;  for  notes  have  as  distinct  a  meaning  as 
words,  perhaps  even  a  more  definite  sense.  Now  it 
appears  to  me  almost  impossible  to  compose  for  a 
descriptive  poem.  The  mass  of  compositions  of  tins 
nature  do  not  militate  against  this  opinion,  but 
rather  prove  its  truth  :  for  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
one  single  work  of  the  kind  that  has  been  successful. 
You  are  placed  between  a  dramatic  conception  or  a 
mere  narrative  ;  the  one.  in  the  "  Krl  Koiiig,"  causes 
the  willows  to  rustle,  the  child  to  shriek,  and  the 
horse  to  gallop.  The  other  imagines  a  ballad  singer, 
calmly  narrating  the  horrible  tale,  as  you  would  a 
ghost  story,  and  this  is  the  most  accurate  view  of 
the  two  ;  Reichardt  almost  invariably  adopted  this 
reading,  but  it  does  not  suit  me  ;  the  music  stands 
in  my  way.  I  feel  in  a  far  more  spectral  spirit  when 
I  read  such  a  poem  quietly  to  myself,  and  imagine 
the  rest,  than  when  it  is  depicted,  or  related  to  me. 

It  does  not  answer  to  look  on    '•  Napoleon's  Mid- 


2'JZ  MENDELSSOHN  S   LETTERS. 

night  Review"  as  a  narrative,  inasmuch  as  no 
particular  person  speaks,  and  the  poem  is  not  written 
in  the  style  of  a  ballad.  It  seems  to  me  more  like  a 
clever  conception  than  a  poem;  it  strikes  me  that 
the  poet  himself  placed  no  great  faith  in  his  misty 
forms. 

1  could  indeed  have  composed  music  for  it  in  the 
same  descriptive  style,  as  Neukomm  and  Fischhof, 
in  Vienna.  I  might  have  introduced  a  very  novel 
rolling  of  drums  in  the  bass,  and  blasts  of  trumpets 
in  the  treble,  and  have  brought  in  all  sorts  of  hob- 
goblins. But  I  love  my  serious  elements  of  sound 
too  well  to  do  anything  of  the  sort ;  for  this  kind  of 
thing  always  appears  to  me  a  joke  ;  somewhat  like 
the  paintings  in  juvenile  spelling-books,  where 
the  roofs  are  coloured  bright  red,  to  make  the 
children  aware  they  are  intended  for  roofs  ;  and  I 
should  have  been  most  reluctant  to  write  out  and 
send  you  anything  incomplete,  or  that  did  not  en- 
tirely please  myself,  because  I  always  wish  you  to 
have  the  best  1  can  accomplish. 

FELIX. 


Milan,  July  I4th,  1831. 

This  letter  will  probably  be  the  last  (P.V.)  that  I 
shall  write  to  you  from  an  Italian  city  ;  I  may  possi- 
bly send  you  another  from  the  Borromean  Islands, 
which  I  intend  to  visit  in  a  few  days,  but  do  not  reljf 
on  this. 


MILAN.  203 

My  week  here  has  been  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
and  amusing  that  I  have  passed  in  Italy ;  and  how 
this  could  be  the  case  in  Milan,  hitherto  uuerly  un- 
known to  me,  I  shall  now  proceed  to  relate.  In  the 
first  place.  I  immediately  secured  a  small  piano,  and 
attacked  with  rabbia  that  endless  "Walpurgis 
Night,"  to  finish  the  thing  at  last  ;  and  to-morrow 
morning  it  will  be  completed,  except  the  overture  ; 
f>r  as  yet  1  have  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  whether 
it  shall  be  a  grand  symphony,  or  a  short  introduction 
breathing  of  spring.  I  should  like  to  take  the 
opinion  of  some  adept  on  this  point.  I  must  say 
the  conclusion  has  turned  out  better  than  I  myself 
expected.  The  hobgoblins  and  the  bearded  Druid, 
with  the  troinbon.-s  sounding  behind  him.  diverted 
me  immensely,  and  so  1  passed  two  forenoons  very 
happily. 

1  Tasso '  also  contributed  to  my  pleasure,  which  I 
have  now  for  the  first  time  been  able  to  read  with 
facility;  it  is  a  splendid  poem.  I  was  glad  to  be 
already  well  acquainted  with  Goethe's  'Tasso;' 
being  constantly  reminded  of  it,  by  the  principal 
passages  of  the  Italian  poet,  whose  verse,  like  that 
of  (ioetho.  is  so  dreamy,  harmonious,  and  tender,  its 
sweet  melody  delighting  the  ear.  Your  favourite 
passage,  dear  father.  "  Kra  la  notte  allor."  struck  me 
as  very  beautiful,  but  the  stanzas  that  I  admi-e 
most,  are  those  descriptive  of  Clorinda's  death; 
they  are  so  wonderfully  imaginative,  and  fine.  The 
close  however  does  not  quite  please  me.  Tancred's 
'  Lamentations  '  are,  I  think,  more  charmingly  com< 


204  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

posed  than  true  to  nature  ;  they  contain  too  many 
clever  ideas  and  antitheses;  and  even  the  words  of 
the  hermit,  which  soothe  him,  sound  mure  like  a 
censure  on  the  hermit  himself.  1  should  infallibly 
have  killed  him  on  the  spot,  if  he  had  talked  to  me 
in  such  a  strain. 

liecently  I  was  reading'  the  episode  of  '  Annida' 
in  a  carriage,  surrounded  by  a  compauv  of  Italian 
actors,  who  were  incessantly  singing  liossini's  "Ma 
trema,  trema,"  when  suddeniv  there  recurred  to  mv 
thoughts  Gluck's  "Vous  m'allez  quitter,"  and  lli- 
naido's  falling  asleep,  and  the  voyage  in  the  air — 
and  I  felt  in  a  most  melting  mood.  This  is  genuine 
music  ;  thus  have  men  felt,  and  thus  have  men 
spoken,  and  such  strains  can  never  die.  I  do  cor- 
dially hate  the  present  licentious  style.  Do  not  take 
it  amiss  ;  your'molto  is.  Without  hatred,  no  love, — 
and  T  <?id  feel  so  moved  when  I  thought  of  Gluck, 
and  his  grand  embodiments. 

Every  evening  I  was  in  society,  owing  to  a  mad 
prank,  which  however  proved  very  successful.  1 
think  I  have  invented  this  kind  of  eccentric  pro- 
ceeding, and  may  take  out  a  patent  for  it,  as  I  have 
already  made  my  most  agreeable  acquaintances  ex 
abrupto,  without  letters  or  introductions  of  any 
kind. 

I  asked  by  chance  on  my  arrival  at  Milan  the 
name  of  the  Commandant,  and  the  litqu>u'i  dc  j/lare 
named  General  Krtmann.  I  instantly  thought  of 
Beethoven's  Sonata  in  A  major,  and  its  dedication; 
and  as  I  had  heard  all  that  was  good  of  Madame 


GENERAL    ERTMAXX.  205 

Ertmann,  from  those  who  knew  her;  that  she  was 
en  kind,  and  had  bestowed  such  loving  care  on 
Beethoven,  and  played  hersell'  so  beautifully,  I,  next 
iih  ruing,  at  a  suitable  hour  for  a  visit,  put  on  a 
b'ack  coat,  desired  that  the  Government-house 
should  be  pointed  out  to  me,  and  occupied  myself 
on  the  way  thither  l>y  composing  some  pretty 
speeches  for  the  General's  lady,  and  went  on  boldly. 

I  cannot  however  denyth-.it  1  felt  rather  dismayed 
when  1  was  told  that  the  General  lived  in  the  first 
story,  facing  the  street;  and  when  I  was  fairly  in 
t'u>  splendid  vaulted  hall,  I  was  seized  with  a  sudden 
pi;i:c.  and  would  fain  luve  turned  back:  but  I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  vastly  provincial 
on  my  part  to  take  fright  at  a  vaulted  hall,  so  I 
went  straight  up  to  a  group  of  soldiers  standing 
near,  and  asked  an  old  man  in  a  short  nankeen 
jacket,  if  General  Ertmann  lived  there,  intending 
tiieii  to  send  in  my  name  to  the  lady.  Unluckily 
the  man  replied,  "J  am  General  Ertmann:  what  is 
your  pleasure?"  This  was  unpleasant,  as  I  was 
forced  to  have  recourse  to  the  speech  I  had  pre- 
pared. The  General,  however,  did  not  seem  parti- 
cularly edilied  by  my  statement,  and  wished  to 
know  whom  lie  had  the  honour  of  addressing.  This 
also  was  far  from  agreeable,  but  fortunately  he  was 
acquainted  with  my  name,  and  became  very  polite  : 
his  wife,  he  said  was  not  at  home,  but  I  should  find 
her  at  two  o'clock,  or  any  hour  after  that  which 
might  suit  me. 

I  was  glad  that  all  had  gone  off  so  well,  acd  in 
18 


206  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

the  meantime  went  to  the  Brera,  where  I  passed  the 
time  in  studying  the  '  Sposalizio '  of  llaphacl,  and 
at  two  o'clock  1  presented  myself  to  Freifrau 
Dorothea,  von  Ertmann.  She  received  me  with 
much  courtesy,  and  was  most  obliging,  plaving  me 

*   '  O        O "    A         i/         O 

Beethoven's  Sonata  in  (!  sharp  minor,  and  the  one 
in  D  minor.  The  old  (leneral.  who  now  appeared 
in  his  handsome  grey  uniform,  covered  with  orders, 
was  quite  enchanted,  and  had  tears  of  delight  in 
his  eyes,  because  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  heard 
his  wife  play;  he  said  there  was  not  a  person  in 
Milan  who  cared  to  hear  what  I  had  heard.  She 
mentioned  the  trio  in  B  major,  but  said  she  could 
not  remember  it.  I  played  it.  and  sang  the  other 
parts:  this  enchanted  the  old  couple,  and  so  their 
acquaintance  was  soon  made. 

Since  then  their  kindness  to  me  is  so  great  that  it 
quite  overwhelms  me.  The  old  (leneral  shows  me 
all  the  remarkable  objects  in  Milan;  in  the  after- 
noon his  lady  takes  me  in  her  carriage  to  drive  on 
the  Corso.  and  at  night  we  have  music  till  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Yesterday  at  an  early  hour 
they  drove  with  me  in  the  environs;  at  noon  1  dined 
with  them,  and  in  the  evening  there  was  a  party. 
They  are  the  most  agreeable  and  cultivated  couple 
you  can  imagine,  and  both  as  much  in  love  with  each 
other  as  if  they  were  a  newly  wedded  pair, —  and 
yet  they  have  been  married  for  four-and-thirty  years, 
Yesterday  he  spoke  of  his  profession,  of  military 
life,  of  personal  courage,  and  similar  subjects,  with 
a  degree  of  lucidity,  and  liberality  of  feeling,  that 


207 

I  scarcely  ever  mot  with,  except  in  my  father.  The 
General  has  been  now  nil  officer  for  six-and-forty 
years,  and  you  should  really  sec  him  galloping  be- 
side his  wife's  carriage  in  the  park. — the  old  gentle- 
man looking-  so  dignified  and  animated  ! 

She  plays  Beethoven's  works  admirably,  though 
it  is  so  long  since  she  studied  them  ;  she  sometimes 
rather  exaggerates  the  expression,  dwelling  too  long 
on  one  passage,  and  then  hurrying  the  next  ;  but 
there  are  many  parts  that  she  plays  splendidly,  and 
I  think  I  have  learned  something  from  her.  When 
sometimes  she  can  bring  no  more  tone  out  of  the 
instrument.  and  begins  to  sing  in  a  voice  that  eman- 
ates from  the  very  depths  of  her  soul,  she  reminds 
me  of  you,  dear  Fanny,  though  you  are  infinitely 
her  superior.  When  I  was  approaching  the  end  of 
the  adagio  in  the  B  major  trio,  she  exclaimed.  "The 
amount  of  expression  here  is  beyond  any  one's  play- 
ing ; "  and  it  is  quite  true  of  this  passage. 

The  following  day,  when  I  went  there  again  to 
play  her  the  symphony  in  C  minor,  she  insisted  on 
my  taking  off'  my  coat,  as  the  day  was  so  hot.  In 
the  intervals  of  our  music  she  related  the  most  in- 
terestino-  anecdotes  of  Beethoven,  and  that  when 
she  was  playing  to  him  in  the  evening  he  not  u infre- 
quently used  the  snuffers  as  a  tooth-pick  !  bhe  told 
me  that  when  she  lost  her  last  child,  Beethoven  at 
first  shrank  from  coming  to  her  house  ;  but  at  length 
he  invited  her  to  visit  him.  and  when  she  arrived, 
she  found  him  seated  at  the  piano,  and  simply 
Baying,  '•  Let  us  speak  to  each  other  by  music,"  ha 


208 

pluved  on  for  more  than  an  hour,  and.  as  she  ex- 
pressed  it.  ''lie  said  much  to  me.  and  at  last  gave 
mo  consolation."  In  short  1  am  no\v  in  the  most 
genial  mood,  and  quite  at  my  ease,  having  no 
occasion  to  resort  to  any  disguise,  or  to  be  silent, 
for  we  understand  each  other  admirably  on  all 
points.  She  played  the  Kreutzcr  Sonata  yesterday 
•with  violin  accompaniment,  and  when  the  violin- 
player  (an  Austrian  cavalry  officer)  made  a  long 
flourish,  a  (a  Paganini.  at  the  beginning  of  the 
adagio,  the  old  General  made  such  a  desperate 
grimace,  that  I  nearly  fell  oif  my  chair  from 
laughing. 

1  called  on  Teschner,  as  you,  dear  mother,  dvsired 
me  to  do  so  ;  such  a  musician  however  is  as  depress- 
ing as  a  thick  fog.  Madame  Krtmann  has  more 
soul  in  her  little  finger  than  that  fellow  has  in  his 
whole  body,  with  his  formidable  moustaches,  behind 
which  he  seems  to  lie  in  ambush.  There  is  no 
public  music  in  Milan;  they  still  speak  with  enthu- 
siasm of  last  winter,  when  Pasta  and  Kubini  sang 
here,  but  say  that  they  were  ir.iserably  supported, 
and  the  orchestra  and  choruses  bad.  1  however 
heard  Pasta  six  years  ago  in  Paris,  and  I  can  do  the 
same  every  year,  with  the  addition  of  a  good  orches- 
tra and  a  good  chorus,  and  many  other  advantages; 
so  it  is  evident  that  if  I  wish  to  hear  Italian  music. 
1  must  go  to  Paris  or  to  England.  The  Germans 
however  take  it  amiss  when  you  say  this,  and  persist 
p-ir  furc.u  in  singing,  playing,  and  acquiring  new 
ideas  here,  declaring  this  is  the  laud  of  inspiration ; 


THEATRE    AT    MILAN*.  209 

while  I  maintain  that  inspiration  is  peculiar  to  no 
country,  but  floats  about  in  the  air. 

Two  days  ago  I  was  in  the  morning  theatre  here, 
ami  was  well  amused.  There  you  can  see  more  of 
the  life  of  the  people  than  in  any  other  part  of  Italy. 
It  is  a  large  theatre  with  boxes,  the  pit  filled  with 
wooden  benches,  on  which  you  can  thai  places  if  you 
come  early  ;  the  stage  is  like  every  other  stage,  but 
there  is  no  roof  cither  over  the  pit  or  boxes,  so  that 
the  bright  sun  shines  into  the  theatre  and  into  the 
eyes  of  the  actors.  Moreover,  the  piece  they  gave 
was  in  the  Milanese  dialect.  You  feel  as  if  you 
were  secretly  watching  all  these  complicated  and 
diverting  situations,  and  might  take  part  in  them  if 
necessary,  and  thus  the  most  familiar  comic  dilem- 
mas become  novel  and  interesting  ;  and  the  public 
seem  to  feel  the  most  lively  interest  in  them.  And 
now,  good  night.  I  wished  to  talk  to  you  a  little 
before  going  to  bed,  and  so  it  has  become  a  letter. 

FELIX. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  TWO  LETTERS  TO  EDWARD  DEVRIEXT. 

Milan,  July  ifth,  1831. 

You  reproach  me  with  being  two-and-twenty  with- 
out having  yet  acquired  fame.  To  this  I  can  only 
reply,  had  it  been  the  will  of  Providence  that  I 
should  be  renowned  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  I 
no  doubt  should  have  been  so.  I  cannot  help  it,  for 
18* 


210  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  no  more  write  to  gain  a  name,  than  to  obtain  a 
Kapellmeister's  place.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  it 
I  could  secure  both.  But  so  long  as  I  do  not 
actually  starve,  so  long  is  it  my  duly  to  write  only 
as  I  feel,  and  according  to  what  is  in  my  heart,  and 
to  leave  the  results  to  Him  who  disposes  of  other 
and  greater  matters.  1C  very  day,  however,  I  am 
more  sincerely  anxious  to  write  exactly  as  1  feel, 
and  to  have  even  less  regard  than  over  to  external 
views;  and  when  I  have  composed  a  piece  just  as  it 
sprang  from  my  heart,  then  I  have  done  my  duty 
towards  it ;  and  whether  it  brings  hereafter  fame, 
honour,  decorations,  or  snuff-boxes,  etc..  is  a  matter 
of  indifference  to  me.  If  you  mean,  however,  that  [ 
have  neglected,  or  delayed  perfecting  myself,  or  my 
compositions,  then  I  beg  you  will  distinctly  and 
clearly  say  in  what  respect  and  wherein  I  have  done 
so.  This  would  be  indeed  a  serious  reproach. 

You  wish  me  to  write  operas,  and  think  T  am 
unwise  not  to  have  done  so  long  ago.  I  answer, 
place  a  right  libretto  in  my  hand,  and  in  two  months 
the  work  shall  be  completed,  for  every  day  I  feel 
more  eager  to  write  an  opera.  I  think  that  it  may 
become  something  fresh  and  spirited,  if  I  begin  it 
now  ;  but  I  have  got  no  words  yet,  and  I  assuredly 
never  will  write  music  for  any  poetry  that  does  not 
inspire  me  with  enthusiasm.  If  you  know  a  man 
capable  of  writing  the  libretto  of  an  opera,  for 
Heaven's  sake  tell  me  his  name,  that  is  all  I  want. 
But  till  I  have  the  words,  you  would  not  wish  me  to 
be  idle — even  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  be  so  ? 


COMPOSITION*    OF    SACRED    MUSIC.  211 

I  have  recently  written  a  good  deal  of  sacred 
music;  that  is  quite  as  much  a  necessity  to  me,  as 
the  impulse  that  often  induces  people  to  study  some 
particular  book,  the  Bible,  or  others,  as  the  only 
reading  they  care  for  at  the  time.  If  it  bears  any 
resemblance  to  .Sebastian  Bach,  it  is  again  no  fault 
of  mine,  for  I  wrote  it  just  according  to  the  mood  I 
was  in;  and  if  the  words  inspired  me  with  a  mood 
akin  to  that  of  old  Bach,  I  shall  value  it  all  the 
more,  for  I  am  sure  yon  do  not  think  that  1  would 
merely  copy  his  form,  without  the  substance;  if  it 
were  so,  I  should  feel  s:u-h  disgust  and  such  a  void, 
that  I  could  never  again  finish  a  composition. 
Since  then  I  have  written  a  grand  piece  of  music 
which  will  probably  impress  the  public  at  large — 
the  first  '•  AValpurgis  Night"  of  Goethe.  ]  began 
it  simply  because  it  pleased  me,  and  inspired  me 
with  fervour,  and  never  thought  that  it  was  to  be 
performed  ;  but  now  that  it  lies  finished  before  me.  I 
see  that  it  is  quite  suitable  for  a  great  Concertstiick, 
and  you  must  sing  the  Bearded  Pagan  Priest  at  my 
first  subscription  concert  in  Berlin.  I  wrote  it  ex- 
pressly to  suit  your  voice  ;  and  as  I  have  hitherto 
found  that  the  pieces  I  have  composed  with  least 
reference  to  the  public  are  precisely  those  which 
pave  them  the  greatest  satisfaction,  so  no  doubt  it 
will  be  on  tins  occasion  also.  I  only  mention  this 
to  prove  to  you  that  I  do  not  neglect  the  practical. 
To  be  sure  this  is  invariably  an  after-thought,  for 
who  the  deuce  could  write  music,  the  most  unpracti- 
cal thing  in  the  world— the  very  reason  why  1  love 


212  MENDELSSOHN'S  I.F.TTKP.S. 

it  so  dearly — and  yet  think  all  the  time  of  tlie  prac- 
tical! Jt  is  just  as  if  a  lover  were  to  bring  n 
declaration  of  love  lo  his  mistress  in  rlnme  and 
verse,  and  recite  it  to  her. 

I  am  now  going'  to  Munich,  where  they  have 
oll'.-red  me  an  opera,  to  see  if  I  can  find  a  man  tin-re 
who  is  a  poet,  for  I  will  only  have  a  man  who  has 
a  certain  portion  of  fire  and  genius.  J  do  not  ex- 
pect a  giant,  and  if  I  fail  in  meeting  with  a  poet 
tlr.-re.  1  shall  probably  make  IinmeFinaiiu's  acquain- 
tance for  this  express  purpose,  and  if  he  is  not  the 
m. MI  either,  I  shall  try  for  him  in  London.  I  alwaxs 
fancy  that  the  right  man  has  not  yet  appeared  ;  hut 
what  can  i  do  to  find  him  out?  He  certainly  does 
not  live  in  the  Reichmann  Hotel,  nor  next  door;  so 
where  does  he  live?  Pray  write  to  me  on  tin-;  sub- 
ject ;  although  1  firmly  believe  that  a  kind  Provi- 
dence, wlio  sends  us  all  things  in  due  time  wh.cn  we 
stand  in  need  of  them,  wiil  supply  this  also  if 
necessary;  still  we  must  do  our  duty,  and  look 
round  us — and  I  do  wisli  the  libretto  were  found. 

In  the  meantime  I  write  as  good  music  as  1  can. 
and  hope  to  make  progress,  and  we  already  agreed, 
wiicn  discussing  this  a  Hair  in  my  room.  that,  as  J 
said  before.  I  am  not  responsible  for  the  rest.  But 
eiii  ugh  now  of  this  dry  tone.  1  reallv  have  become 
once  :>:on'  almost  morose  and  impatient,  and  yet] 
had  so  firmly  resolved  never  again  to  be  so! 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE.  213 

Lucerne,  August  27th,  1831. 

I  quite  feel  that  any  opera  I  were  to  write  now, 
would  not  be  nearly  so  good  as  any  second  one  I 
might  compose  afterwards;  and  that  I  must  first 
enter  on  the  new  path  I  propose  to  myself,  and  pur- 
sue it  for  some  little  time,  in  order  to  discover 
whither  it  will  lead,  and  how  far  it  will  go,  whereas 
in  instrumental  music  I  already  begin  to  know  ex- 
actly what  I  really  intend.  Having  worked  so  much 
in  this  sphere.  I  feel  much  more  clear  and  tranquil 
wiih  regard  to  it. — in  short,  it  urges  me  onwards. 
Besides.  I  have  been  made  very  humble  lately,  by  a 
chance  occurrence  that  still  dwells  On  my  mind. 

In  the  valley  of  Engelberg  I  found  Schiller's 
'Wilhelm  Tell."  and  on  reading  it  over  again,  I 
was  anew  enchanted  and  fascinated  by  such  a  glor- 
ious work  of  art.  and  by  all  the  passion,  fire,  and 
fervour  it  displays.  An  expression  of  Goethe's 
suddenly  recurred  to  my  mind.  In  the  course  of 
a  long  conversation  about  .Schiller,  he  said  that 
Schiller  had  been  able  to  supply  two  great  tragedies 
every  year,  besides  other  poems.  This  business-like 
term  .<u]>ply.  struck  me  as  the  more  remarkable  on 
reading  this  fresh,  vigorous  work  ;  and  such  energy 
seemed  to  me  so  wonderfully  grand,  that  I  felt  as  if 
in  the  course  of  my  life  I  had  never  yet  produced 
anything  of  importance  ;  all  my  works  seem  so 
isolated.  I  feel  as  if  I  too  must  one  day  supply 
something.  Pray  do  not  think  this  presumptuous  ; 
but  rather  believe  that  I  only  say  so  because  I  know 
what  ought  to  be,  and  what  is  not.  Where  I  am 


214 

to  find  the  opportunity,  or  even  a  glimpse  of  one,  is 
hitherto  to  me  quite  a  mystery.  I!'  however  it  be 
my  mission,  I  firmly  believe  that,  the  opportunity 
will  be  granted,  and  if  1  do  not  profit  by  it  another 
will ;  but  in  that  case  1  cannot  divine  why  I  feel 
such  an  impulse  to  press  onwards.  If  you  could 
succeed  in  not  thinking  about  singers,  decorations, 
and  situations,  but  feel  solely  absorbed  in  represent- 
ing men,' nature,  and  life,  1  am  convinced  that  you 
would  yourself  write  the  best  libretto  of  any  one 
living;  for  a  person  who  is  so  familiar  with  the 
stage  as  you  are.  could  not  possibly  write  anything 
undramatic,  and  1  really  do  not  know  what,  you 
could  wish  to  change  in  your  poetry.  If  there  be 
an  innate  feeling  for  nature  and  melody,  the  verses 
cannot  fail  to  be  musical,  even  though  they  sound 
rather  lame  in  the  libretto;  but  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, you  may  write  prose  if  you  like,  I  will 
compose  music  for  it.  But  when  one  form  is  to  be 
moulded  into  another,  when  the  verses  are  to  bo 
made  musically,  but  not  fdt  musically,  when  fine 
words  are  to  replace  outwardly  what  is  utterly 
deficient  in  fine  feeling  inwardly — there  you  are 
right — this  is  a  dilemma  from  which  no  man  can 
extricate  himself;  for  as  surely  as  pure  metre, 
happy  thoughts,  and  classical  language  do  not 
suffice  to  make  a  good  poem,  unless  a  certain  flash 
of  poetical  inspiration  pervades  the  whole,  so  an 
opera  can  only  become  thoroughly  musical,  and 
aci  ordingly  thoroughly  dramatic,  by  a  vivid  feeling 
of  .ife  in  all  the  characters. 


MUSIC    AND    POETRY.  215 

There  is  a  passage  on  this  subject  in  Beau- 
marchais.  who  is  censured  because  he  makes  his 
personages  utter  too  iV\v  fine  thoughts,  and  has  put 
too  lew  poetical  phrases  into  their  mouths.  He 
answers,  that  this  is  not  his  fault.  Ife  must  confess 
that  during  the  whole  time:  lie  was  writing  the  piece, 
lie  was  engaged  in  the  most  lively  conversation  with 
his  di'timd'is  personoe :  that  while  seated  at  his  wri- 
ting table  he  was  exclaming.  "  Figaro,  prends  garde, 
le  Comte  sait  tout  ! — Ah  !  Comtesse.  quelle  impru- 
dence ! — vite.  sauve-toi.  petit  page:"  and  then  he 
wrote  down  their  answers,  whatever  they  chanced 
to  be. — nothing  more.  This  strikes  me  as  being 
be 'h  true  and  charming. 

The  sketch  of  the  opera  introducing  an  Italian 
Carnival,  and  the  close  in  Switzerland.  I  already 
knew,  but  was  not  aware  that  it  was  yours.  Be  so 
good  however  as  to  describe  Switzerland  with  great 
vigour,  and  immense  spirit.  If  you  arc  to  depict 
an  effeminate  Switzerland,  with /orfe/H  and  languish- 
ing, such  as  I  saw  here  in  the  theatre  last  night  in 
the  '  Swiss  Family.'  when  the  very  mountains  and 
Alpine  horns  became  sentimental.  I  shall  lose  all 
patience,  and  criticize  you  severely  in  Spener's 
paper.  I  beg  you  will  make  it  full  of  animation, 
and  write  to  me  again  on  the  subject. 


Isola  Bella,  July  24th,  1831. 

You  no  doubt  imagine  that   you  inhale  the  fra- 
grance of  ^range-flowers,  see  blue  sky,  and  a  bright 


21G  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

sun,  and  a  clear  lake,  when  you  merely  read  the 
date  of  this  letter.  Not  at  all  !  The  weather  is 
atrocious,  rain  pouring  down,  and  claps  of  thunder 
heard  at  intervals  ;— the  hills  look  frightfully  bleak, 
as  if  the  world  were  enshrouded  in  clouds;  the  lake 
is  grey,  and  the  sky  sombre.  I  can  smell  no  orange- 
flowers,  and  this  island  might  quite  as  appropriately 
be  called  "  Isola  Brut  t  a!"  and  this  has  gone  on  for 
three  days!  My  unfortunate  cloak!  I  am  con- 
fessedly the  "spirit  of  negation"  (F  refer  to  my 
mother),  and  as  it  is  at  present  the  fashion  with 
every  one  not  to  consider  the  Borromcan  Islands 
"by  any  means  so  beautiful."  and  somewhat  formal  ; 
and  as  the  weather  seems  resolved  to  disgust  me 
with  this  spot, — from  a  spirit  of  opposition  1  main- 
tain that  it  is  perfectly  lovely.  The  approach  to 
these  islands,  where  you  see  crowded  together  green 
terraces  with  quaint  statues,  and  many  old-fashioned 
decorations,  along  with  verdant  foliage,  and  every 
species  of  southern  vegetation,  has  a  peculiar  charm 
for  me,  and  yet  something  affecting  and  solemn  too. 
For  what  I  last  year  saw  in  all  the  luxuriance  and 
exuberance  of  wild  nature,  and  to  which  my  eve  had 
become  so  accustomed.  T  find  now  cultivated  by  art. 
and  about  to  pass  away  from  me  for  ever.  There 
are  citron-hedges  and  orange-bushes ;  and  sharp- 
pointed  aloes  shoot  up  from  the  walls — it  is  just  as 
if,  at  the  end  of  a  piece,  the  beginning  were  to  bo 
repeated;  and  this,  as  you  know.  I  particularly  like. 
In  the  steamboat  was  the  first  peasant  girl  I  have 
seen  here  in  .Swiss  costume ;  the  people  speak  a  bad 


LA(JO    MAGGIORE.  217 

half-French  Italian.  This  is  mj  fast  letter  froni 
Jtaly,  hut  be.i've  me  the  Italian  lakes  are  not  the 
least  interesting  objects  in  this  country;  unzi, — 1 
never  saw  any  inure  beautiful.  People  tried  to  per- 
suade me  that  the  gigantic  forms  of  the  .Swiss  Alps 
that  have  haunted  me  from  my  childhood*  had  been 
exaggerated  by  my  imagination,  and  that  after  all 
a  snowy  mountain  was  not  in  reality  so  grand  as  1 
thought.  I  almost  divaded  being  undeceived,  but 
at  iirst  sight  of  the  foreground  of  the  Alps  from  the 
Lake  of  Como.  veiled  in  clouds,  with  here  and  there 
a  surface  of  bright  snow,  sharp  black  points  rearing 
their  heads,  and  sinking  precipitously  into  the  lake, 
the  hills  Iirst  scattered  over  with  trees  and  villages, 
and  covered  with  moss,  and  then  bleak  and  deso- 
laie,  and  on  every  side  deep  ravines  filled  with 
snow, — 1  felt  just  as  1  formerly  did,  and  saw  that  I 
had  exaggerated  nothing. 

In  the  Alps  all  is  more  free,  more  sharply  defined; 
more  uncivilized,  if  yon  will  :  yet  I  always  feel  there 
but'ii  healtiii :T  and  happier.  I  have  just  returned 
from  the  gardens  of  the  Palace,  which  I  visited  iu 
the  midst  of  the  rain.  1  wished  to  imitate  Albano.f 
and  sent  for  a  barber  to  open  a  vein  :  he  however 
misunderstood  my  purpose,  and  shaved  mo  instead, 
— a  very  pardonable  mistake.  Gondolas  are  landing 
on  every  part  of  the  island,  for  to-il>y  is  the  fete 
following  th;>  invat  festival  of  yesterday,  in  honour 
of  which  the  P.  P.  Px.rn.meo  sent  for  singers  and 

*  The  whole  family  had  been  iu  Switzerland  iu  the  year  1821. 
t  In  the  'Titau  '   of  Jean  1'tuii 

19 


218  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

musicians  from  Milan,  to  sing  and  play  to  the 
islanders.  The  gardener  asked  me  if  1  knew  what 
a  wind  instrument  was.  I  said  with  a  clear  con- 
science that  I  did;  and  he  replied  that  I  ought  to 
try  to  imagine  the  effect  of  thirty  such  instruments, 
and  violins  andbasses,  all  played  at  once;  but  indeed 
1  could  not  possibly  imagine  it,  for  it  must  be  heard 
to  be  believed.  The  sounds  (continued  he)  seemed 
to  come  from  Heaven,  and  all  this  was  produced  by 
philharmoin/.  What  he  meant  by  this  term  I  know 
not;  but  the  music  had  evidently  made  more  impres- 
sion on  him,  than  the  best  orchestra  often  does  on 
musical  connoisseurs.  At  this  moment  some  one 
has  just  begun  to  play  the  organ  in  the  church  for 
Divine  service,  in  the  following  strain: — 


THE    BOKROMEAX    ISLANDS.  219 

Full  organ  in  the  bass,  Bourdon  1G.  and  rood  stops, 
have  a  very  fine  effect.  The  fellow  has  come  all  the 
way  from  Milan,  too,  expressly  to  make  this  distur- 
bance in  the  church.  I  must  go  there  f  tr  a  little, 
so  farewell  for  a  few  moments.  I  intend  to  remain 
here  for  the  night,  instead  of  crossing  the  lake 
again,  for  1  am  so  much  pleased  with  this  little 
island.  I  certainly  cannot  say  that  1  have  slept 
soundly  for  the  last  two  nights  ;  one  night  owing  to 
the  innumerable  daps  of  thunder,  the  next  owing  to 
the  innumerable  tleas  ;  and.  in  all  probability,  1  have 
to-night  the  prospect  of  both  combined.  l>ut  as  the 
following  morning  1  shall  be  speaking  French,  and 
have  left  Italy,  and  crossed  the  Simplon,  1  mean  to 
ramble  about  all  this  day  and  to-morrow  in  true 
Italian  fashion. 

I  must  now  relate  to  you  historically  how  I  hap- 
pened to  come  here.  At  the  very  last  moment  of 
my  stay  in  Milan,  the  Krtmanns  came  to  my  room  to 
bid  me  farewell,  and  we  took  leave  of  each  other 
more  cordially  than  I  have  done  of  any  one  for 
many  a  long  day.  I  promised  to  send  you  many 
kind  wishes  from  them,  though  they  are  unacquainted 
with  you,  and  I  also  agreed  to  write  to  them  oc- 
casionally. Another  valued  acquaintance  I  made 
there,  is  Herr  Mozart,  who  holds  an  office  in  Milan  ; 
but  he  is  a  musician,  heart  and  soul.  lie  is  said  to 
bear  the  strongest  resemblance  to  his  father,  es- 
pecially in  disposition;  for  the  very  same  phrases 
that  affect  the  feelings  in  his  father's  letters,  from 
their  candour  and  simplicity,  constantly  recur  in  the 


220  MENDELSSOHN'S  LET-ERS. 

conversation  of  the  son,  whom  no  one  can  fail  to 
love  from  the  moment  he  is  known.  For  instance, 
I  consider  it  a  very  charming  trait  in  him,  that  he  is 
as  jealous  of  the  fame  and  name  of  his  father,  as  if 
he  were  an  incipient  young  musician  ;  and  one  even- 
ing, at  the  Ertmanns',  when  a  great  many  of 
Beethoven's  works  had  been  played,  the  Baroness 
asked  me  in  a  whisper  to  play  something  of  Mozart's, 
otherwise  his  son  would  be  quite  mortified  ;  so  when 
I  played  the  overture  to  "  Don  Juan,"  he  began  to 
thaw,  and  begged  me  to  play  also  the  overture  to 
the  •'  Flauto  Magico  "  of  his  l;  Vatter"  and  seemed 
to  feel  truly  filial  delight  in  hearing  it :  it  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  like  him. 

lie  gave  me  letters  to  some  friends  near  the  Lake 
of  Como.  which  procured  me  for  once  a  glimpse  of 
Italian  provincial  life,  and  I  amused  myself  famously 
there  for  a  few  days  with  the  Doctor,  the  Apothecary, 
the  Judge,  and  other  people  of  the  locality.  There 
were  very  lively  discussions  on  the  subject  of  Sand, 
und  many  expressed  great  admiration  of  him;  this 
appeared  strange  to  me.  as  the  occurrence  is  of  such 
distant  date  that  no  one  any  longer  argues  on  the 
subject.  They  also  spoke  of  Shakspeare's  plays, 
which  are  now  being  translated  into  Italian.  The 
Doctor  said  that  the  tragedies  were  good,  but  that 
there  were  some  plays  about  witches  that  were  too 
stupid  and  childish:  one.  in  particular,  "11  Sunno 
ci'  una  Nolle  di  Alez/a  Stale."  In  it  the  stale  devii  e 
occurred  of  a  piece  being  rehearsed  in  the  play, 
and  it  was  full  of  anachronisms  and  childish  ideas  ; 


THE  'MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAX  22t 

on  which  they  all  chimed  in  that  it  was  very  silly 
ami  advised  me  not  to  read  it.*  I  remained  meekly 
silent,  and  attempted  no  defence !  I  bathed  fre 
quently  in  the  Lake,  and  sketched,  and  yesterday 
rowed  on  the  Lake  of  Lugano,  which  frowned 
sternly  on  us  with  its  cascades  and  dark  canopy  of 
clouds;  then  across  the  hills  to  Luvino,  and  to-day 
1  came  here  by  steam. 

pj/.-cnii'tf). — I  have  this  moment  returned  from  the 
Iso'a  Mad  re,  and  most  splendid  it  is;  spacious,  and 
full  of  terraces,  citron-hedges,  and  evergreen  shrubs. 
The  weather  has  at  last  become  less  inclement  ;  thus 
lh"  large  white  house  on  the  island,  with  its  ruins 
and  terraces,  looked  very  pretty.  It  is  indeed  a 
ujique  land,  and  1  only  wish  I  could  bring  with  me 
to  Berlin  a  portion  of  the  same  balmy  air  that  I  in- 
haied  when  in  the  boat  to-day.  You  have  nothing 
lik.'  it,  and  1  would  rather  you  enjoyed  it.  than  all 
tlh'  people  who  imbibe  it  here.  A  fiercely  mous- 
tarhios'd  (ierman  was  with  me  in  the  boat,  who  ex- 
amined :ui  the  beautiful  scenery  as  if  he  were  about 
to  purchase  it  and  thought  it  too  d<>ar.  Presently 
.1  heard  a  trait  quite  in  the  style  of  Jean  Paul. 
Wh'-n  we  were  walking  on  the  island,  surrounded  by 
verdure,  an  Italian,  who  was  of  the  party,  observed 
tha!  this  was  a  spot  well  adapted  for  lovers  to  ram- 
ble in.  and  to  enjoy  the  charms  of  nature.  "Ah! 
yes  '  "  said  I,  in  a  languishing  tone.  "  It  was  on 


*  The  overture  to  the  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  was  com- 
posed by  Mendelssohn,  as  early  H.S  i.he  year  1526. 

19* 


222  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

this  account,"  continued  he,  "that  I  separated  from 
my  wife  ten  years  ago  ;  I  established  her  at  Venice 
in  a  small  tobacconist's  shop,  and  now  I  live  as  I 
please.  You  must  one  day  do  the  same." 

The  old  boatman  told  us  that  he  had  rowed  Gen- 
eral  Bonaparte  on  this  lake,  and  related  various 
anecdotes  of  him  and  Murat.  He  said  Murat  was 
a  most  extraordinary  man  ;  all  the  time  that  he  was 
rowing  him  on  the  lake,  he  never  ceased  singing  to 
himself  for  a  single  moment,  and  once  when  setting 
off  on  a  journey  he  gave  him  his  spirit-flask,  and  said 
he  would  buy  another  for  himself  in  Milan.  T  can- 
not tell  why  these  little  traits,  especially  the  singing, 
seemed  to  realize  the  man  in  my  mind  more  than 
many  a  book  of  history. 

The  "  AValpurgis  Xacht"  is  finished  and  revised, 
and  the  overture  will  soon  be  equally  far  advanced. 
The  only  person  who  has  heard  it  as  yet,  is  Mozart, 
and  he  was  so  delighted  with  it  that  the  well-known 
composition  caused  me  fresh  pleasure;  he  insisted 
on  my  publishing  it  immediately.  Pray  forgive  this 
letter,  written  in  true  student  phraseology.  You  no 
doubt  perceive  from  its  style  thnt  I  have  not  worn  a 
neckcloth  for  a  week  past;  but  I  wished  you  to 
know  how  gay  and  happy  I  have  been  during  the 
days  spent  among  the  mountains,  and  with  what 
pleasure  1  look  forward  to  those  that  yet  await  mo. 
Yours,  FELIX. 


OH  AMOUNT.  223 

A  rUnion-prieure  de  Chamounix,  en.  of  July,  1831. 
My  dear  Parents, 

I  cannot  refrain  from  writing1  to  you  from  time  to 
time,  to  thank  you  for  my  wondrou.sly  beautiful 
journey;  and  if  I  ever  did  so  before,  I  must  do  so 
a  train  now.  for  more  delightful  days  than  those  on 
my  journey  hither,  and  during  my  stay  here,  I  never 
experienced.  Fortunately  you  already  know  this 
valley,  so  there  is  no  occasion  for  me  tu  describe  it 
to  you  ;  indeed,  how  could  1  possibly  have  done  so? 
But  this  I  may  say.  that  nowhere  has  nature  in  all 
her  glory  met  my  eyes  in  such  brightness  as  here, 
both  when  I  saw  it  with  you  fur  the  lirst  time  and 
now;  and  as  every  one  who  sees  it,  ought  to  thank 
(Jod  for  having  given  him  faculties  to  comprehend, 
and  to  appreciate  such  grandeur,  so  I  must  also 
thank  you  for  having  supplied  me  with  the  means  of 
enjoying  such  a  pleasure. 

I  had  been  told  that  I  exaggerated  the  forms  of 
the  mountains  in  my  imagination;  but  yesterday,  at 
the  hour  of  sunset,  I  was  pacing  up  and  down  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  each  time  that  I  turned  my 
back  on  the  mountains,  I  endeavoured  vividly  to 
represent  to  myself  these  gigantic  masses,  and  each 
time  when  I  again  faced  them,  they  far  exceeded  my 
previous  conceptions.  Like  the  morning  that  we 
drove  away  from  this  when  the  sun  was  rising*  (no 
doubt  you  remember  it)  the  hills  have  been  clear 
and  lovely  ever  since  I  arrived.  The  snow  pure, 
and  sharply  deGned,  and  apparently  near  in  the  dark 

*  la  the  year  1S21. 


224  MKXPELSSOHX'S    T.KTTEIIS. 

blue  atmosphere;  tlie  glaciers  thundering  unromit' 
tingly.  us  tin1  ice  is  melting:  when  clouds  gather, 
they  lie  lightly  on  the  base  of  the  mountains,  the 
summits  of  which  stand  forth  clear  above.  Would 
that  wo  could  see  them  together!  I  have  passed 
this  whole  day  here  quietly,  and  entirely  alone.  I 
wished  to  sketch  the  outlines  of  the  mountains,  so  I 
went,  out  and  found  an  admirable  point  of  view,  but 
when  I  opened  my  book,  the  paper  seemed  so  very 
small  that  I  hesitated  about  attempting  it.  1  have 
indeed  succeeded  in  giving  the  outlines  what  is 
called  cijrri.-clli/, — but  every  stroke  looks  so  formal, 
when  compared  with  the  grace  and  freedom  which 
everywhere  here  pervade  nature.  And  then  the 
splendour  of  colour!  In  short,  this  is  the  most 
brilliant  point  of  my  travels  ;  and  the  whole  of  my 
excursion  on  foot,  so  solitary,  independent,  and 
enjoyable,  is  something  new  to  me.  and  a  hitherto 
unknown  pleasure. 

I  must  however  relate  how  I  came  here,  otherwise 
my  letter  at  last  will  contain  nothing-  but  exclama- 
tions. As  I  previously  wrote  to  you.  1  had  the  most 
odious  weather  on  the  Lago  Maggiore,  and  the 
Islands.  It  continued  so  incessantly  stormy,  cold, 
and  wet.  that  the  same  evening  I  took  my  place  in 
the  diligence  in  rather  a  sulky  humour,  and  we  drove 
on  towards  the  Simplon.  Scarcely  had  we  been 
journeying  for  half  an  hour,  when  the  moon  came 
out.  the  clouds  dispersed,  and  next  morning  the 
weather  was  most  bright  and  beautiful.  I  felt  almost 
ashamed  of  this  undeserved  good  fortune,  and  I 


THE    SIMPLOX    ROAD.  225 

could  DOW  thoroughly  enjoy  the  glorious  scenery; 
the  rf'vd  winding  lirst  through  high  green  valleys, 
then  through  rocky  ravines  and  meadows,  and  at 
last  past  glaciers  and  snowy  mountains.  I  had  with 
me  a  little  French  book  on  the  subject  of  the  Sim- 
plon  road,  which  both  pleased  and  affected  me ;  for 
the  subject  was  Napoleon's  correspondence  with  the 
Directoii-e  about  the  projected  work,  and  the  first 
report  of  the  General  who  crossed  the  mountain. 
With  what  spirit  and  vigour  these  letters  are 
written  !  and  yet  a  litlle  swagger  too.  but  with  such 
a  glow  of  enthusiasm  that  it  quite  touched  me,  as  I 
was  driven  along  this  capital  level  road  by  an 
Austrian  postilion.  1  compared  the  fire  and  poetry 
displayed  in  every  description  contained  in  these 
letters  (I  mean  those  of  the  subaltern  General)  with 
the  eloquence  of  the  present  day,  which  leaves  you 
so  terribly  cold  and  is  so  odiously  prosaic  in  all  its 
philanthropic  views,  and  so  lame — where  there  is 
plenty  offunfaronna.de,  but  no  genuine  youth — and 
I  could  not  but  feel  that  a  great  epoch  has  passed 
away  for  ever.  I  was  unable  to  divest  myself  of  the 
idea  that  Napoleon  never  saw  this  work — one  of  his 
favourite  conceptions — for  he  never  crossed  the 
hfiniplon  when  the  road  was  finished,  and  was  thus 
deprived  of  this  great  gratification.  High  up,  in 
tli"  Siuiplon  village,  all  is  bleak,  and  I  actually 
shivered  from  cold  for  the  first  time  during  the  last. 
} ear  and  a  half.  A  neat  civil  Frenchwoman  keeps 
ti.e  inn  on  the  summit,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
describe  the  sensation  of  satisfiictiou  caused  by  ita 


226  MEXDELSSOIIX'S    LETTERS. 

thrifty  cleanliness,  which  is  nowhere  to  be  found  in 
Italy. 

AVe  then  descended  into  the  Valais,  as  far  as 
Brieg,  where  I  stayed  all  night,  overjoyed  to  find 
myself  once  more  among  honest,  natural  people,  who 
could  speak  German,  and  who  plundered  me  into 
the  bargain  in  the  most  infamous  manner.  The 
following  day  I  drove  through  the  Yalais — an  en- 
chanting journey :  the  road  all  along,  like  those  you 
have  seen  ia  Switzerland,  ran  between  two  lofty 
ranges  of  mountains,  their  snowy  peaks  starting  up 
at  intervals,  and  through  avenues  of  green,  leafy 
walnut-trees,  standing  in  front  of  pretty  brown 
houses, — below,  the  wild  grey  Rhone, — past  Lenk, 
and  every  quarter  of  an  hour  a  village  with  a  little 
church.  From  Martigny  I  travelled  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  literally  on  foot,  and  as  I  found  the 
guides  too  dear  I  went  on  quite  alone,  and  started 
with  my  cloak  and  knapsack  on  my  shoulders. 
About  a  couple  of  hours  later  I  met  a  stout  peasant 
lad,  who  became  my  guide,  and  also  carried  my  knap- 
sack ;  and  so  we  went  on  past  Forclas  to  Trient,  a 
little  dairy  village,  where  I  breakfasted  on  milk  and 
honey,  and  thence  to  the  Col  de  Balme. 

The  whole  valley  of  Chamouni,  and  Mont  Blanc, 
with  all  its  precipitous  glaciers,  lay  before  me  bathed 
in  sunshine.  A  party  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  (one 
of  the  latter  very  pretty  and  young)  came  from  the 
opposite  side  on  mules,  with  a  number  of  guides; 
scarcely  had  we  all  assembled  under  one  roof,  when 
subtle  vapours  began  to  rise,  shrouding  first  the 


JOfRNKY    THROUGH    SWlTZKiU,  AXT>.  227 

mountain  and  then  the  valley,  and  at  last  thickly 
covering  every  object,  so  that  soon  nothing  was  to 
be  seen.  The  ladies  were  afraid  of  going  out  into 
the  fog.  just  as  if  they  were  not  already  in  the  midst 
of  it;  at  last  they  set  oil',  ami  from  the  window  1 
watched  the  singular  spectacle  of  the  caravan 
leaving  the  house,  all  laughing,  and  talking  loudly 
in  French  and  English  and  patois.  The  voices 
presently  became  indistinct;  then  the  figures  like- 
wise ;  and  last  of  all  I  saw  the  pretty  girl  in  her  wide 
Scotch  cloak;  then  only  glimpses  of  grey  shadows 
at  intervals,  and  they  all  disappeared.  A  few  min- 
utes later  I  ran  down  the  opposite  side  of  the  moun- 
tain with  my  guide  ;  we  soon  emerged  once  more  into 
sunshine,  and  entered  the  green  valley  of  t'hainouni 
with  its  glaciers;  and  at  length  arrived  here  at  the 
Union.  I  have  just  returned  from  a  ramble  to 
Montanvert.  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  to  the  source  of 
the  Arveiron.  You  know  this  splendid  scenery,  and 
so  you  will  forgive  me.  if.  instead  of  going  to  Geneva 
to-morrow,  I  first  make  the  tour  of  Mont  I51anc,  that 
I  may  become  acquainted  with  this  personage  from 
the  southern  side  also,  which  is  I  hear  the  most 
striking.  Farewell,  dear  parents  !  May  we  have  a 
happy  meeting  ! — Yours,  FELIX. 


Charney,  August  6th,  1831. 
My  dear  Sisters. 

You  have,  I  know,  read  Hitter's  "Afrika"  from 
beginning  to  enl,  but  still  I  do  not  think  you  know 


228  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

where  Charney  is  situated,  so  fetch  out  Keller's  old 
travelling  map.  Unit  you  may  be  able  to  accompany 
me  on  my  wanderings.  Trace  with  your  finger  a 
line  from  Yevay  to  Clarens,  and  thence  to  the  Dent 
de  Jaman  ;  this  line  represents  a  footpath  ;  and  where 
your  finger  has  been  my  legs  also  went  this  morning 
• — for  it  is  now  only  half-past  seven,  and  I  am  still 
fasting.  1  mean  to  breakfast  here,  and  am  writing 
to  you  in  a  neat  wooden  room,  waiting  till  the  milk 
is  made  warm  for  me ;  without,  I  have  a  view  of  the 
bright  blue  lake ;  and  so  I  now  begin  my  journal,  and 
mean  to  continue  it  as  I  best  can  during  my  pedes- 
trian tour. 

After  breakfast. — Heavens  !  here  is  a  pretty  busi- 
ness. My  landlady  has  just  told  me  with  a  long 
face,  that  there  is  not  a  creature  in  the  village  to 
show  me  the  way  across  the  Dent,  or  to  carry  my 
knapsack,  except  a  young  girl ;  the  men  being  all  at 
work.  I  usually  set  off  every  morning  very  early 
and  quite  alone,  with  my  bundle  on  my  shoulders, 
because  I  find  the  guides  from  the  inns  both  too 
expensive  and  too  tiresome ;  a  couple  of  hours  later 
I  hire  the  first  honest-looking  lad  I  see,  and  so  I 
travel  famously  on  foot.  I  need  not  say  how  en- 
chanting the  lake  and  the  road  hither  were  ;  you 
must  recall  for  yourself  all  the  beauties  you  once 
enjoyed  there.  The  footpath  is  in  continued  shade. 
under  walnut-trees  and  up  hill,- — past  villas  and 
castles. — along  the  lake  which  trlitters  through  the 
foliage  ;  villages  everywhere,  and  brooks  and  streams 
rushiug  along  from  every  nook,  in  every  village  ; 


TRAVELLING    ON    FOOT.  229 

then  the  neat  tidy  houses, — it  is  all  quite  too  charm- 
ing, and  you  feel  so  fresh  and  so  free.  Here  comes 
the  girl  with  her  steeple  hat.  I  can  tell  you  she  is 
vastly  pretty  into  the  bargain,  and  her  name  is 
Pauline ;  she  has  just  packed  my  things  into  her 
wicker  basket.  Adieu ! 

Evening,  Chateau  d'Oex,  candle-light. 

I  have  had  the  most  delightful  journey.  "\Vhat 
would  I  not  give  to  procure  you  such  a  day  !  But 
then  you  must  first  become  two  youths  and  be  able  to 
climb  actively,  and  drink  milk  when  the  opportunity 
offered,  and  treat  with  contempt  the  intense  heat, 
the  many  rocks  in  the  way.  the  innumerable  holes  in 
the  path,  and  the  still  larger  holes  in  your  boots, 
and  I  i'rar  you  are  rather  too  dainty  for  this;  but  it 
was  most  lovely!  I  shall  never  forget  my  journey 
with  Pauline;  she  is  one  of  the  nicest  girls  1  ever 
met.  so  pretty  and  healthy-looking,  and  naturally 
intelligent;  she  told  me  anecdotes  about  her  village, 
and  I  in  return  told  her  about  Italy;  but  I  know 
who  was  the  most  amused. 

The  previous  Sunday,  all  the  young  people  of  difi- 
tini'tinn  in  her  village  had  gone  to  a  place  far  across 
the  mountain,  to  dance  there  in  the  afternoon.  They 
set  off  shortly  after  midnight,  arrived  while  it  was 
still  dark,  lighted  a  large  fire  and  made  coffee.  To- 
wards morning  the  men  had  running  and  wrest'ing 
matches  before  the  ladies,  (we  passed  a  broken  hedge- 
testifying  to  the  truth  of  this  ;)  then  they  danced,  and 
were  at  home  again  by  Sunday  evening,  and  early  on 
20 


230  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Monday  rr.orning  they  all  resumed  their  labours  in 
the  vineyards.  By  Heavens,  I  felt  a  strong  inclina- 
tion to  become  a  Vaudois  peasant,  while  I  was  listen- 
ing- to  Pauline,  when  from  above  she  pointed  out  to 
me  the  villages  where  they  dance  when  the  cherries 
are  ripe,  and  others  where  they  dance  when  the  cows 
go  to  pasture  in  the  meadows  and  give  milk.  To- 
morrow they  are  to  dance  in  St.  Gingolph  :  they  row 
across  the  lake,  and  any  one  who  can  play,  takes  his 
instrument  with  him  ;  but  Pauline  is  not  to  be  of  the 
party,  because  her  mother  will  not  allow  it,  from 
dread  of  the  wide  lake,  and  many  other  girls  also 
do  not  go  for  the  same  reason,  as  they  all  cling  to- 
gether. 

She  then  asked  my  leave  to  say  good-day  to  a 
cousin  of  hers,  and  ran  down  to  a  neat  cottage  in  the 
meadow  ;  soon  the  two  girls  came  out  together  and 
sat  on  a  bench  and  chattered;  on  the  Col  de  Jaman 
above,  I  saw  her  relations  busily  mowing,  and  herding 
the  cows. 

What  cries  and  shouts  ensued  !  Then  those  above 
began  to  jodcl.  on  which  they  all  laughed.  I  did  not 
understand  one  syllable  of  their  pa'.ois,  except  the 
beginning,  which  was,  Adieu  Pierrot!  All  these 
sounds  were  taken  up  by  a  merry  mad  echo,  that 
shouted  and  laughed  and  jo'lnllcd  too.  Towards 
noon  we  arrived  at  Alliere.  When  I  had  rested  for 
a  time,  I  nice  mere  shouldered  my  knapsack,  for  a 
fat  old  man  provoked  me  by  offering  to  carry  it  for 
me;  then  Pau'.inj  and  I  shook  hands,  ami  we  took 
lea"?  3  of  each  other.  1  descended  into  the  meadows, 


CAXTOX    DE    VAUD.  231 

and  if  you  do  not  care  about  Pauline,  or  if  I  have 
bored  you  with  her,  it  is  not  my  fault,  but  that  of  the 
mode  in  which  I  have  described  her ;  nothing  could 
be  more  pleasant  in  reality,  and  so  was  my  further 
journey.  I  came  to  a  cherry-orchard,  where  the 
people  were  gathering  the  fruit,  so  I  lay  down  on  the 
grass  and  ate  cherries  for  a  time  along  with  them. 
I  took  my  mid-day  rest  at  Latinc,  in  a  clean  wooden 
house.  The  carpenter  who  built  it  gave  me  his  com- 
pany to  some  roast  lamb,  and  pointed  out  to  me  with 
pride  every  table,  and  press,  and  chair. 

At  length  1  arrived  here,  at  night,  through  dazzling 
green  meadows,  interspersed  with  houses,  surrounded 
by  fir-trees  and  rivulets  :  the  church  here  stands  on  a 
velvet  green  eminence;  more  houses  in  the  distance, 
and  still  further  away,  huts  and  rocks ;  and  in  a 
ravine,  patches  of  snow  still  lying  on  the  plain.  It 
is  one  of  those  idyllic  spots  such  as  we  have  seen 
together  in  Wattwyl,  but  the  village  smaller  and  the 
mountains  more  green  and  lofty.  I  must  conclude 
however  to-day  by  a  high  eulogy  on  the  Canton  de 
Vaud.  Of  all  the  countries  I  know  this  is  the  most 
beautiful,  and  it  is  the  spot  where  I  should  most  like 
to  live  when  I  become  really  old.  The  people  are  so 
contented,  and  look  so  well,  and  the  country  also. 
Coming  from  Italy  it  is  quite  touching  to  see  the 
honesty  that  still  exists  in  the  world. — happy  faces, 
a  total  absence  of  beggars,  or  saucy  officials  :  in  short, 
there  is  the  most  complete  contrast  between  the  two 
Lations.  I  thank  God  for  having  created  so  much 
that  is  beautiful ;  and  may  it  be  His  gracious  will  to 


232  MENDELSSOUX'S    LETTERS. 

permit  us  all,  whether  in  Berlin,  England,  cr  in  the 
Chateau  d'Ocx,  to  enjoy  a  happy  evening  and  a 
tranquil  night ! 


Boltigen,  August  yth,  evening. 

The  lightning  and  thunder  are  terrific  outside,  and 
torrents  of  rain  besides;  in  the  mountains  you  first 
learn  respect  for  weather.  I  have  not  gone  further, 
for  it  would  have  been  such  a  pity  to  traverse  the 
lovely  Simmon  valley  under  an  umbrella.  It  was 
grey  morning,  but  delightfully  cool  for  walking  in 
the  forenoon.  The  valley  at  Saniien,  and  the  whole 
road,  is  incredibly  fresh  and  gay.  I  am  never  weary 
of  looking  at  the  verdure.  I  do  believe  that  if 
during  a  long  life  I  were  always  gazing  at  undu- 
lating verdant  meadows,  dotted  over  with  reddish. 
brown  houses,  I  should  always  experience  the  same 
pleasure  in  looking  at  them.  The  road  winds  the 
whole  way  through  meadows  of  this  kind,  and  past 
running  streams. 

At  noon  I  dined  at  Zweisimmen,  in  one  of  those 
enormous  Bernese  houses,  where  everything  glitters 
with  neatness  and  cleanliness,  and  where  even  the 
smallest  detail  is  carefully  attended  to.  I  there 
dispatched  my  knapsack  by  the  diligence  to  Inter- 
laken,  and  am  now  about  to  walk  as  a  regular 
pedestrian  through  the  country;  a  shirt  in  my 
pocket,  a  brush  and  comb,  and  my  sketch-book,  this 
is  all  I  require ;  but  I  am  very  tired.  May  the 
Weather  be  fine  to-morrow  ! 


233 

Wimmis,  the  8th. 

A  pretty  affair  !  the  weather  is  three  times  as  had 
as  ever.  I  must  give  up  my  plan  of  going  to  Inter- 
laken  to-day,  as  there  is  no  possibility  of  getting 
on.  For  the  last  few  hours  the  water  has  been 
pouring  straight  down,  as  if  the  clouds  above  had 
been  fairly  squeezed  out  ;  the  roads  are  as  soft  as 
leather-beds  ;  only  occasional  shreds  of  the  moun- 
tains arc  to  be  seen,  and  even  these  but  rarely.  T 
almost  thought  sometimes  that  I  was  in  the  Murgra- 
vate  of  Brandenburg,  and  the  Simmen  valley  looked 
perfectly  flat.  1  was  obliged  to  button  my  waist- 
coat tight  over  my  sketch-book,  for  very  soon  my 
umbrella  was  of  no  use  whatever,  and  so  I  arrived 
here  to  dinner  about  one  o'clock.  I  had  my  break- 
fast in  the  following  place.  [  Vide  pa^e  2.'M.] 

Weissenburg,  August  8th. 

I  sketched  this  on  the  spot  with  a  pen.  so  do  not 
laugh  at  the  bold  stream.  I  passed  the  night  very 
uncomfortably  at  Boltigen.  There  was  no  room  in 
the  inn,  owing  to  a  fair,  so  I  was  obliged  to  lodge 
in  an  adjacent  house,  where  there  were  swarms  of 
vermin  quite  as  bad  as  in  Italy,  a  creaking  house 
clock,  striking  hoarsely  every  hour,  and  a  baby  that 
screeched  the  whole  night.  I  really  could  not  help 
for  a  time  noticing  the  child's  cries,  for  it  screamed 
in  every  possible  key.  expressive  of  every  possible 
emotion  ;  first  angry,  then  furious,  then  whining,  and 
when  it  could  screech  no  longer,  it  grunted  in  a 
deep  bass.  Let  no  one  tell  me  that  we  must  wish 
to  return  to  the  days  of  our  childhood,  because  chil- 
20* 


234 


MENDELSSOHN  S    LETTERS. 


dren  are  so  happy.  I  am  convinced  that  such  a 
little  mortal  as  this,  flies  into  a  rage  just  as  we  do, 
and  lias  also  his  sleepless  nights,  and  his  passions, 
and  so  forth. 

This  philosophical  view  occurred  to  me  this  morn- 
ing1, while  I  was  sketching  \Vcissenburg,  and  so  I 
wished  to  communicate  it  to  you  on  the  spot ;  but  ] 


SIEBETHAL.  235 

took  up  the  'Constitutional,'  in  which  I  read  that 
Casimir  Perier  wishes  to  resign,  and  many  other 
things  that  furnish  matter  for  reflection ;  among 
others  a  most  remarkable  article  on  the  cholera, 
which  I  should  like  to  transcribe,  for  it  is  so  extra- 
ordinary. The  existence  of  this  disease  is  totally 
and  absolutely  denied;  only  one  person  had  it  in 
Dantzic. — a  Jew, — and  he  got  well.  Then  followed 
a  number  of  "Ilegelisms"  in  French,  and  the  elec- 
tion of  the  deputies — oh  world  ! — As  soon  as  I  had 
finished  reading  the  paper,  I  was  obliged  to  set  off 
again  in  the  rain  through  the  meadows.  No  such 
enchanting  country  as  this  is  to  be  seen,  even  in  a 
dream  ;  in  the  worst  weather,  the  little  churches,  and 
the  numerous  houses,  and  shrubs,  and  rills  are  still 
truly  lovely.  The  verdure  to-day  was  quite  in  its 
element.  Dinner  has  been  long  over,  and  it  is  still 
pouring.  I  intend  to  go  no  further  than  Spiez  this 
evening.  I  regret  much  that  I  can  neither  see  this 
place,  which  seems  beautifully  situated,  nor  Spiez, 
which  I  know  from  Rb'scl's  sketches.  This  is,  in 
fact,  the  climax  of  the  whole  Simmen  valley,  and 
thence  the  old  song  savs  :— 


fu;b  tie      tt  •  ftcn     SI  I  •  pen   i.n  «ie-  be  •  t[;al,  cie  •  be  • 


236  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 


<£ie  -  be  -  tljal,         €te  •  be  .  il;at,         Sie  .  be  .  tl;al. 

I  sang  this  the  whole  day  while  walking  along. 
The  Siebethal,  however,  showed  no  gratitude  for  the 
compliment,  and  the  rain  continued  unremittingly. 

Wyler,  evening. 

They  could  not  take  me  in  at  Spiez,  for  thare  is 
no  inn  there  where  you  can  lodge,  so  T  was  obliged 
to  return  here.  I  very  much  admired  the  situation 
of  Spicz;  it  is  built  on  a  rock,  which  projects  into 
the  lake,  with  numbers  of  turrets,  and  gables,  and 
peaks.  There  I  saw  a  manor-house,  wilh  an  oran- 
gery; a  sulky-looking  nobleman  with  two  sporting 
dogs  at  his  heels;  a  little  church,  and  terraces  with 
bright  flowers.  It  was  all  very  lovely.  To-morrow 
I  shall  see  it  from  the  other  side,  if  the  weather  per- 
mits. To-day  it  has  rained  for  three  hours  consecu- 
tively, and  I  was  well  soaked  on  the  way  here.  The 
mountain  streams  are  superb  in  such  weather,  for 
they  leap  and  rage  furiously.  I  crossed  one  of  these 
demons,  the  Kander,  which  seemed  to  have  taken 
leave  of  its  senses,  leaping  and  blustering,  and 
foaming;  the  water  looked  quite  brown,  and  scat- 
tered its  yellow  spray  in  all  directions.  A  black 
peak  of  the  mountains  was  here  and  there  visible 
through  the  rain-laden  clouds,  which  hung  deeper 
into  the  valley  than  I  ever  before  saw  them.  Yet 
the  day  was  most  enjoyable. 


WYLKR.  237 

Wyler,  the  9th,  morning. 

To-day  the  M'eather  is  worse  than  ever.  It  has 
rained  the  whole  night  through,  and  this  morning 
too  it  is  pouring.  I  have  however  intimated  that 
I  shall  not  set  out  in  such  weather,  and  if  it  con- 
tinues I  Uiall  write  to  you  again  to-night  from 
"\Vyler.  la  the  meantime  I  have  an  opportunity 
of  making  acquaintance  with  my  Swiss  host.  They 
are  very  primitive.  1  could  not  get  on  my  shoes, 
because  +  hey  had  shrunk,  owing  to  the  rain.  The 
landlady  asked  if  I  wished  to  have  a  shoe-horn;  and 
as  I  said  1  did.  she  brought  me  a  tablespoon;  but 
it  answered  the  purpose.  And  moreover  they  are 
eaLi'er  politicians.  Over  my  bed  hangs  a  horrible 
distorted  face,  under  which  is  written.  "  Brinz 
Baniadofsgi."  If  he  had  not  a  kind  of  Polish  cos- 
tume, it  would  be  difficult  to  discover  whether  it  is 
inH'uded  fora  manor  a  woman,  for  neither  the  por- 
trait itself  nor  the  inscription  throw  much  light  on 
the  subject. 

Evening,  at   Untersee. 

All  jesting  is  turned  into  sad  earnest,  which  in 
these  days  may  easily  be  the  case.  The  storm  has 
raged  furiously,  and  caused  great  damage  and 
devastation  ;  the  people  here  say  that  they  remem- 
ber no  more  violent  storm  and  rain  for  many  years  ; 
and  the  hurricane  rushes  on  with  such  incredible 
rapidity.  Tins  morning  early  the  weather  was 
m'Tely  wet  and  disagreeable,  and  yet  this  afternoon 
all  the  bridges  are  swept  away,  and  every  passage 
blocked  up  for  the  moment.  There  has  been  a 


238  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

landslip  at  the  Lake  of  Brienz,  and  everything  is  ID 
an  uproar. 

1  have  just  heard  here  that  war  has  been  pro- 
claimed in  Europe  ;  so  the  world  certainly  bears  a 
wild,  bleak  aspect  at  this  time,  and  1  ought  to  feel 
thankful,  that  at  all  events  for  the  present  I  have  a 
warm  room  here,  and  a  comfortable  roof  over  my 
head.  The  rain  ceased  for  a  time  early  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  thought  that  the  clouds  were  fairly 
exhausted ;  so  I  left  Wyler,  but  soon  found  that 
the  roads  were  sadly  cut  up ;  but  worse  was  to 
come;  the  rain  began  again  gently,  but  came  down 
so  violently  about  nine  o'clock,  and  in  such  sudden 
squalls,  that  it  was  evident  something  strange  was 
brewing.  I  crept  into  a  half  built  hut,  where  a 
great  mass  of  fodder  was  lying,  and  nestled  com- 
fortably among  the  fragrant  hay.  A  soldier  of  the 
Canton,  who  was  on  his  way  to  Thun,  also  crept  in 
from  the  other  side,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  as 
the  weather  did  not  improve,  we  went  on  our  differ- 
ent paths. 

I  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  again  under  a  roof 
at  Leisengen,  and  waited  there  a  long  time;  bat  as 
my  luggage  was  at  Interlaken,  a  distance  of  only 
two  hours  from  thence,  I  thought  that  I  would  set 
the  weather  at  defiance ;  so  about  one  o'clock  I  set 
out  for  Interlaken.  There  was  literally  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  the  grey  surface  of  the  lake. — no  moun 
tains,  and  seldom  even  the  outlines  of  the  opposite 
shore.  The  little  springs,which  as  you  may  remember 
ofton  run  along  by  the  footpaths,  had  swollen  into 


KAfX    AM)    FLOODS.    .  239 

stream?,  through  which  1  was  obliged  to  wade;  and 
where  the  road  was  hilly,  the  waters  accumulated 
in  the  hollows  and  funned  a  pool,  so  1  was  forced  to 
jump  over  dripping  hedges,  into  marshy  meadows; 
the  small  blocks  of  wood — by  means  of  which 
brooks  are  crossed  her, '-lay  deep  under  (he  water ;  at 
one  moment  I  found  myself  between  two  of  these 
brooks,  which  had  run  into  each  other,  and  for  a 
considerable  time  1  was  obliged  to  walk  against  the 
current,  above  my  ankles  in  water.  All  the  streams 
are  black,  or  chocolate-brown,  looking  like  earth 
(lowing  along.  Torrents  poured  down  from  above  ; 
the  wind  shook  down  the  water  from  the  dripping 
walnut-trees  ;  the  waterfalls  which  tumble  into  the 
lake  thundered  frightfully  from  both  shores.  You 
could  trace  the  course  of  the  brown  muddy  streaks, 
rushing  along  through  the  pure  waters  of  the  lake, 
which,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  uproar,  remained  per- 
fectly tranquil,  its  surface  scarcely  niftled,  quietly 
receiving  all  the  blustering  streams  that  poured 
into  its  bosom. 

A  man  now  came  up,  who  had  taken  off  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  turned  up  his  trowsers.  This 
made  me  feel  rather  nervous.  Presently  I  met  two 
women,  who  said  that  I  could  not  go  through  the 
village,  for  ail  the  bridges  were  gone.  I  asked  how 
far  it  was  to  Interlaken.  "A  good  hour,"  they  said. 
I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  turn  back,  so  I  went 
on  towards  the  village,  where  the  people  shouted  to 
me  from  the  windows,  that  I  could  come  no  further, 
because  the  waters  were  rushing  down  so  impetuously 


240  MEXDKLSSOIIX'S    LETTF.RS. 

IV; -in  the  mountains;  and  certainly  there  was  a  fine 
commotion  in  the  middle  o('  the  village.  The  muddy 
stream  had  swept  every  tiling  along  with  it.  eddying 
round  the  houses,  and  running  along  the  meado\\H 
and  footpaths!,  and  finally  thundering  down  into  the, 
lake.  Luckily  there  was  a  little  boat  there,  in  which 
i  was  ferried  across  to  Xeuhaus.  though  this  expedi- 
tion in  an  open  bout,  in  torrent,s  of  rain,  was  far  from 
pleasant.  My  condition,  when  I  arrived  at  Xeu- 
haus,  was  miserable  enough  ;  I  looked  as  if  1  wore 
long  black  boots  over  my  light -coloured  trowsers, 
my  shoes  and  stockings  quite  up  to  my  knees,  dark- 
brown  ;  then  came  the  original  white,  then  a  soaked 
nine  paletot;  even  my  sketch-book,  that  I  had  but- 
toned under  my  waistcoat,  was  wet  through. 

I  arrived  in  this  plight  at  Interlaken.  where  I 
was  very  ill  received,  for  the  people  there  either 
could  not  or  would  not  find  room  for  me,  and  so  1 
was  forced  to  return  to  Untersee,  where  I  am 
famously  lodged,  and  most  comfortable.  Singularly 
enough,!  had  been  all  along  anticipating  with  such 
pleasure  revisiting  the  inn  at  hiterlaken.  of  which 
I  had  so  many  reminiscences,  and  I  drove  up  in  my 
little  Xeuhaus  carriage  to  the  Xuss-Baum  Platz, 
and  saw  the  well-known  glass  gallery;  the  pretty 
landlady,  too,  came  to  the  door,  but  somewhat  aged 
and  altered.  Xeither  the  dreadful  storms,  nor  the 
various  discomforts  1  had  endured,  annoyed  me  half 
so  much  as  not  being  able  to  remain  at  Interlaken, 
consequently  for  the  first  time  since  I  left  Vevay  I 
was  out  of  humour  for  half  an  hour,  and  obliged  to 


IXTI:KLAKENT  241 


sing  Beethoven's  adagio  in  A  flat  major,  three  or 
four  times  over,  before  I  could  recover  my  equan- 
imity. I  learned  here,  for  the  first  time,  the  damage 
the  storm  had  already  done,  and  may  yet  do,  for  the 
min  is  still  incessant. 

Ili(f-pa*t  Xine  o'clock  at  Xiyhl. — The  bridge  at 
Zweiliitsclienen  is  carried  away;  the  vctturini  from 
Urk-nz.  and  Grindehvald.  will  not  encounter  the  risk 
of  driving  home,  from  the  fear  of  some  rock  falling 
on  their  heads.  The  water  here  has  risen  to  within 
a  foot  and  a  half  of  the  Aar  bridge  ;  the  gloom  of 
the  sky  I  cannot  describe.  I  mean  to  wait  here  pa- 
tiently ;  besides,  I  do  nut  require  the  aid  of  localities, 
to  enable  me  to  summon  up  my  reminiscences.  They 
have  given  me  a  room  where  there  is  a  piano ;  it 
indeed  bears  the  date  of  the  year  1794,  and  some- 
what resembles  in  tone  the  little  old  '•  Silbermann" 
in  my  room  at  home,  so  I  took  a  fancy  to  it  at  the 
very  first  chord  I  struck,  and  it  also  recalls  you  to 
my  mind.  This  piano  has  outlived  many  things,  and 
probably  never  dreamt  that  I  was  likely  to  compose 
by  its  aid.  as  I  was  not  born  till  1809,  now  fully 
two-und-t\vei)ty  years  ago  ;  in  the  meantime,  the 
piano,  though  seven-and-thirty  years  old,  has  plenty 
of  good  material  in  it  yet. 

I  have  some  new  "Liedcr"  in  hand,  dear  sisters 
You  have  not  seen  my  favourite  cue  in  E  major 
21 


242  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

"  Auf  der  Reise," — it  is  very  sentimental.  I  arc,  now 
composing  one  which  will  not,  I  fear,  be  very  good; 
but  it  will,  at  all  events,  please  us  three,  for  it  is  at 
least  well  intended.  The  words  are  Goethe's,  but  I 
don't  say  what  they  are  ;  it  is  very  daring  in  me  to 
compose  for  this  poetry,  and  the  words  are  by  no 
means  suitable  for  music,  but  I  thought  them  so 
divinely  beautiful,  that  I  could  not  resist  singing 
them  to  myself.  Enough  for  to-day  ;  so  good  night, 
dear  ones. 

August  loth. 

The  weather  this  morning  is  clear  and  bright,  and 
the  storm  has  passed  away ;  would  that  all  storms 
ended  as  quickly,  and  were  as  soon  allayed  !  I  have 
passed  a  glorious  day,  sketching,  composing,  and 
inhaling  fresh  air.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  on  horse- 
back to  Intcrlaken,  for  no  man  can  go  there  on  foot 
at  this  moment.  The  whole  road  is  flooded,  so  that 
even  on  horseback  I  got  very  wet.  In  this  place, 
too,  every  street  is  inundated  and  impassable.  How 
beautiful  Intcrlaken  is!  How  humble  and  insignifi- 
cant we  feel  when  we  see  how  splendid  the  good 
Lord  has  made  this  world ;  and  nowhere  can  you  see 
it  in  greater  magnificence  than  here.  1  sketched  for 
my  father  one  of  the  walnut-trees  he  so  much  ad- 
mires, and  for  the  same  reason  I  mean  to  send  him  a 
faithful  drawing  of  one  of  the  Bernese  houses.  Va- 
rious parties  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  children, 
drove  past  and  stared  at  me;  I  thought  to  myself 
that  they  were  now  enjoying  the  same  luxury  1 
formerly  did,  and  would  fain  have  called  out  to  them 


INTERLAKEX.  243 

not  to  forgot  this  '  Towards  evening,  the  snowy 
mountains  were  glowing  in  the  clearest  outlines  arid 
b  the  loveliest  hues. 

"\Vhcn  I  came  buck.  I  asked  for  some  music  paper, 
and  they  referred  me  to  their  Pastor,  and  he  to  the 
Forest-ranger,  whose  daughter  gave  me  two  pretty 
neat  sheets.  The  "  Lied''  which  I  alluded  to  yesterday 
is  now  finished;  I  cannot  help  after  all  telling  you 
what  it  is — but  you  must  not  laugh  at  me — it  is  actu- 
ally,— but  don't  think  I  am  seized  with  hydrophobia 
• — a  sonnet,  "  Die  Licbende  schrcibt."*  I  am  afraid 
its  merit  is  not  great  :  I  think  it  was  mere  inwardly 
felt  than  outwardly  well  expressed;  still  there  are 
some  good  passages  in  it,  and  to-morrow  I  am  going 
to  set  to  music  a  little  poem  of  Uh'.aud's  ;  a  couple 
of  pieces  for  the  piano  are  also  in  progress.  I  can 
unfortunately  form  no  judgment  of  my  new  composi- 
tions; I  cannot  tell  whether  they  are  good  or  bad; 
and  this  arises  from  the  circumstance  that  all  the 
people  to  whom  1  have  played  anything  for  the  last 
twelve  months,  forthwith  glibly  declared  it  to  be 
wonderfully  beautiful,  and  that  will  never  do.  I 
really  wish  that  some  <  ue  would  let  me  have  a  little 
rational  blame  once  more,  or  what  would  be  still 
more  agreeable,  a  little  rati'/nal  praise,  and  then  I 
should  find  it  less  indispensable  to  act  the  censor 
towards  myself,  and  to  be  so  distrustful  of  my  own 
powers.  Nevertheless,  I  must  go  on  writing  in  the 
meantime. 


*  In  tho  "  Liederheft,"  Opus  15  of  his  posthumous  wovk?. 


244  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

When  1  was  at  the  Forest-ranger's,  I  heard  that 
the  whole  country  was  devastated,  and  the  m^st  sad 
intelligence  conies  from  all  sides.  All  the  bridges  in 
the  liasli  valley  are  entirely  swept  away,  and  also 
many  houses  and  cottages.  A  man  came  here  to-day 
from  Lautcrbrunnen,  and  he  was  up  to  his  shoulders 
in  water ;  the  high  road  is  ruined,  and  what  sounded 
most  dismal  of  all  to  me,  a  quantity  of  furniture  and 
household  things  were  seen  floating  down  the  Kan- 
der,  coming  no  one  knows  whence.  Happily  the 
waters  are  beginning  to  subside,  but  the  damage  they 
have  done  cannot  so  easily  be  repaired.  My  travel- 
ling plans  have  also  been  considerably  disturbed  by 
these  inundations,  for,  if  there  be  any  risk,  I  shall 
certainly  not  go  into  the  mountains. 

The  nth. 

So  I  now  close  the  first  part  of  my  journal,  and 
send  it  off  to  you.  To-morrow  I  shall  begin  a  new 
one,  for  I  intend  then  to  go  to  Lautcrbrunnen.  The 
road  is  practicable  for  pedestrians,  and  not  an  idea 
of  any  danger;  travellers  from  thence  have  come 
here  to-day,  but  for  carriages,  the  road  will  not  bo 
passable  during  the  remainder  of  the  year.  I  pur- 
pose, therefore,  proceeding  across  the  Lesser  Schei- 
deck  to  Crimh'lwald.  and  by  the  Croat  Scheideck 
to  Meiringcu;  by  Furka  and  Crimsel  to  Altnrf.  and 
so  on  to  Lucerne  ;  storms,  ram,  and  everything  else 
permitting. — which  means,  if  Cod  will.  This  morn- 
ing early,  I  was  on  the  Harder,  and  saw  the  moun- 
tains in  the  utmost  splendour.  I  never  remember 
the  Juugfrau  so  clear  and  so  glowing  as  both  yester- 


JOURXE?  THROUGH  SWITZERLAND.        245 

day  evening  and  at  early  dawn  to-day.  I  rode  back 
to  Interlaken.  where  I  finished  my  sketch  of  the 
walnut-tree.  After  that  I  composed  for  a  time,  and 
wrote  three  waltzes  for  the  .Forest-ranger's  daughter 
on  the  remaining  music-paper  she  had  given  me, 
politely  presenting  them  to  her  myself.  I  have  just 
returned  from  a  watery  expedition  to  an  inundated 
reading-room,  as  I  wished  to  see  how  the  Poles  are 
petting  on — unluckily  there  is  no  reference  to  them 
in  the  papers.  I  must  now  occupy  myself  till  the 
evening  in  packing,  but  I  am  most  reluctant  to  leave 
this  room,  where  I  am  so  comfortable,  and  shall 
sadly  miss  my  little  piano.  I  intend  to  sketch  the 
view  from  this  window  with  my  pen  on  the  back  of 
my  letter,  and  also  to  write  out  my  second  "  Lied," 
and  then  Untorsee  will  soon  also  belong  to  my 
reminiscences.  "  Ach  !  wie  schnell  !  "  I  quote 
myself,  which  is  not  over-modest,  but  these  lines 
recur  to  me  but  too  often  when  the  days  are  short- 
ening, the  leaves  of  the  travelling  map  turned  over, 
and  first  Weimar,  then  Munich,  and  lastly  Vienna, 
are  all  things  of  the  past  year.  AVell  !  here  you 
have  my  window  !  [Vide  page  246.] 

A//  /«;?(/•  later. — My  plans  are  altered,  and  I  stay 
here  til!  the  day  after  to-morrow.  The  people  say  that 
by  that  time  the  roads  will  be  considerably  better,  and 
there  is  plenty  here  both  to  see  and  to  sketch.  The 
Aar  has  not  risen  to  such  a  height  for  seventy  years. 
To-day  people  were  stationed  on  the  bridge,  with 
poles  and  hooks,  watching  to  catch  any  fragments 
of  the  broken-down  bri  Iges.  It  did  look  so  strange 


246 


MENDELSSOHN  S    LETTERS. 


-  * — OT~ -j--—  — •*-^1SJ 

to  see  a  h!:ick  object  come  swimming  alon^  in  the 
distance  from  the  bills,  which  was  at  last  recognized 
to  bo  a  piece  of  balustrade,  or  a  cross-beam,  or 
something  of  the  sort,  when  all  the  people  made  a 
rush  at  it,  and  tried  to  fish  it  up  with  their  hooks, 
and  at  lenji'lli  succeeded  in  drawing'  the  monster 
out  of  the  water.  Bui  enough  of  water. — that  is, 
of  i;iy  joiirn.il.  It  is  now  evening',  and  dark.  I  am 
writini:'  by  ciiirl'.e-liirht.  and  should  be  so  f^'ad  if  1 
could  knock  at  ynr.r  doer,  and  tu!\e  my  seat  beside 
yon  at  the  round  table.  It  is  the  old  story  over 
again.  \Vhercver  it  is  bright  and  cheerful,  aud  I 


INUNDATION'S.  247 

am  well  and  happy,  I  most  keenly  feel  your  absence, 
and  most  long  to  be  with  you  again.  AVho  knows, 
however,  whether  we  may  not  come  here  together  in 
future  years,  and  then  think  of  this  day,  as  we  now 
do  of  former  ones  ?  But  as  none  can  tell  whether 
this  may  ever  come  to  pass,  I  shall  meditate  no 
longer  on  the  subject,  but  write  out  my  "  Lied," 
take  another  peep  of  the  mountains,  wish  you  all 
happiness  and  good  fortune,  and  thus  close  my 
journal. 

Lauterbrunnen,  August  i  3th,  1831. 

I  have  just  returned  from  an  expedition  on  foot 
to  the  Schrnadri  Bach,  and  the  Breithorn.  All  that 
you  can  by  possibility  conceive  as  to  the  grandeur 
aud  implying  forms  of  the  mountains  here,  must  fall 
far  short  of  the  reality  of  nature.  That  Goethe  could 
write  nothing-  in  .Switzerland  but  a  few  weak  poems 
and  still  weaker  lette.rs,  is  to  me  as  incomprehensi- 
ble as  many  other  things  in  this  world.  The  road 
here  is  again  in  a  lamentable  state;  where,  six  days 
ago.  there  was  the  must  beautiful  highway,  there  is 
now  oniy  a  desolate  mass  of  rocks;  numbers  of 
huge  blocks  lyui"1  about,  and  heaps  of  rubbish  and 
sand.  Xo  trace  whatever  of  human  hands  to  be 
seen.  The  waters,  indeed,  have  entirely  subsided, 
but  1h>-'y  are  still  in  a  troubled  state,  for  from  time 
to  time  you  can  hear  the  stones  tossed  about,  and 
the  waterfalls  also  in  the  midst  of  their  white  foam, 
roll  down  black  stones  into  the  valley. 

My  guide  pointed  or,t  to  me  a  pretty  new  house, 
standing  i;i  the  midst  of  a  wild  turbulent  stream; 


248  SIEXDELSSOJX'S    LETTERS. 

he  said  that  it  belonged  to  his  brother-in-law  and 
formerly  stood  in  a  beautiful  meadow,  which  had 
been  very  profitable  ;  the  man  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  house  during  the  night ;  the  meadow  has  disap- 
peared for  ever,  and  masses  of  pebbles  and  stones 
have  usurped  its  place.  "He  never  was  rich,  but 
now  he  is  poor,"  said  he,  in  concluding  his  sad  story. 
The  strangest  thing  is,  that  in  the  very  centre  of 
this  frightful  devastation, — the  Liitschine  having 
overflowed  the  whole  extent  of  the  valley — among 
the  marshy  meadows,  and  masses  of  rocks,  where 
there  is  no  longer  even  a  trace  of  a  road,  stands  a 
char-d-banc — and  is  likely  to  stand  for  some  time 
to  come.  It  chanced  that  the  people  in  it  wished 
to  drive  through  at  the  very  time  of  the  hurricane  ; 
then  came  the  inundation,  so  they  were  forced  to 
leave  the  carriage  and  everything  else  to  fate,  thus 
the  c/tar-d-banc  is  still  standing  waiting  there.  It 
was  a  very  frightful  sight  when  we  reached  the  spot, 
where  the  whole  valley,  with  its  roads  and  embank- 
ments, is  a  perfect  rocky  sea;  and  my  guide, who 
went  first,  kept  whispering  to  himself,  " 'sisc'b 
furchtbar  !''  The  torrent  had  carried  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stream  some  large  trunks  of  trees,  which 
are  standing  aloft;  for  at  the  same  moment  some 
huge  fragments  of  rocks  having  been  flung  against 
them,  the  bare  trees  were  closely  wedged  m  betwixt 
them,  and  they  now  stand  nearly  perpendicular  in 
the  bed  of  the  river. 

I  should  never  come  to  an  end  were  T  to  try  to 
tell  you  all  the  va~:ous  forms  of  havoc  which  1  saw 


THE    VALLEY    OF    I.ACTERBRUXXEX.  249 

between  this  place  and  Untersee.  Still  the  beauty 
of  the  valley  made  a  stronger  impression  on  me 
than  I  can  describe.  It  is  much  to  be  legrettod, 
that  when  you  were  in  this  country,  you  went 
no  further  than  Staubbach ;  for  it  is  from  there 
that  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen  really  begins. 
The  Scliwarzer  Munch,  and  all  the  other  snowy 
mountains  in  the  background,  become  more  mighty 
and  grand,  and  on  every  side  bright  foaming  cas- 
cades tumble  into  the  valley.  You  gradually  ap- 
proach the  mountains  covered  with  snow,  and  the 
glaciers  in  the  background,  through  pine  woods, 
and  oaks,  and  maple-trees.  The  moist  meadows, 
too,  were  covered  with  a  profusion  of  brilliant 
flowers — snakewort.  the  wild  scabious,  campanulas, 
and  many  others.  The  Llitschine  had  accumulated 
masses  of  stones  at  the  sides,  having  swept  along 
fragments  of  rocks,  as  my  guide  said,  "bigger  than 
a  stove,"  then  the  carved  brown  wooden  houses,  and 
the  hedges ;  it  is  all  beautiful  beyond  measure ! 
Unfortunately  we  could  not  get  to  the  Schmadri 
Bach,  as  bridges,  paths,  and  fords,  were  all  gone ; 
but  it  was  a  walk  I  can  never  forget. 

I  also  tried  to  sketch  the  Monch;  but  what  can 
you  hope  to  do  with  a  small  pencil?  Hegel  indeed 
says,  '•  that  every  single  human  thought  is  more 
sublime  than  the  whole  of  Nature;  "  but  in  this  place 
I  consider  that  too  presumptuous  ;  the  axiom  sounds 
indeed  very  fine,  but  is  a  confounded  paradox  never- 
theless. I  am  quite  contented,  in  the  meantime,  to 
adhere  to  Nature,  which  is  the  safest  of  the  two. 


250  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

You  know  the  situation  of  the  inn  hero,  and  if  you 
cannot  recall  it.  refer  to  my  former  Swiss  drawing 
book,  where  you  will  find  it  sketched,  badly  enough, 
and  where  I  put  in  a  footpath  in  front,  from  imagina- 
tion, which  made  me  laugh  heartily  to-day,  when  I 
thought  of  it.  I  am  at  this  moment  looking  out  of 
the  same  window,  and  gazing  at  the  dark  mountains, 
for  it  is  late  in  the  evening,  that  is.  a  ouartor  to 
eight  o'clock,  and  1  have  an  idea,  which  is  "more 
sublime  than  the  whole  of  Nature" — I  mean  to  go 
to  bed ;  so  good  night,  dear  ones. 

The  14-th,  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon. 

From  the  dairy  hut  on  the  Wcngern  Alp,  in 
heavenly  weather,  I  send  you  my  greetings. 

Grindelwald,  evening. 

I  could  not  write  more  to  you  early  this  morning; 
I  was  most  reluctant  to  leave  the  Jungfrau.  AVhat 
a  day  this  has  been  for  me  !  Ever  since  we  were 
here  together  I  have  wished  to  see  the  Lesser 
Scheideck  once  more.  So  I  woke  early  to-day,  with 
some  misgivings,  for  so  much  might  intervene — bad 
weather,  clouds,  rain,  fogs — but  none  of  these 
occurred.  It  was  a  day  as  if  made  on  purpose  for 
me  to  cross  the  Wengorn  Alp.  The  sky  was  flecked 
with  white  clouds,  floating  far  above  the  highest 
snowy  peaks  ;  no  mists  below  on  any  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  all  their  pinnacles  glittering  brightly  in 
the  morning  air ;  every  undulation,  and  the  face  of 
every  hill,  clear  and  distinct.  AYhy  should  I  even 
attempt  to  portray  it?  You  have  already  seen  the 


GRIXDELWALD.  2ol 

Wcngern  Alp.  but  at  that  time  we  had  bad  weather, 
whereas  to-day  the  whole  mountain  range  was  in 
holiday  attire.  Nothing  was  wanting-;  from  thun- 
dering avalanches,  to  its  being  Sunday,  and  people 
dressed  in  their  best  going  to  church,  just  as  it  was 
then. 

The  hills  had  only  dwelt  in  my  memory  as  gigantic 
peaks,  for  their  great  altitude  had  entirely  absorbed 
me.  To-day  I  was  struck  with  amazement  at  the 
immense  extent  of  their  ba.se.  their  solid,  spacious 
masses,  and  the  connection  of  all  these  huge  piles, 
which  seem  to  lean  towards  each  othrr.  and  to  reach 
out  their  hands  to  one  another.  In  addition  to  this 
you  must  imagine  every  glacier,  and  snowy  plateau, 
and  point  of  rock,  dazzliugly  lighted  up  and  glitier- 
ing.  Then  the  far  summits  of  distant  mountain 
ranges  stretching  hither,  as  if  surveying  the  others. 
I  do  believe  that  such  are  the  thoughts  of  the 
Almighty.  Those  who  do  not  yet  know  Him.  may 
here  see  Him.  and  the  nature  He  created,  visibly 
displayed.  Then  the  fresh,  bracing  air,  which  re- 
freshes you  when  weary,  and  cools  you  when  it  is 
worm. — and  so  many  springs  !  I  must  at  some  future 
time  write  you  a  separate  treatise  on  springs,  lint 
i  have  not  time  for  it  to-day,  as  I  have  something 
particular  to  tell  you. 

Now  you  will  say.  I  suppose,  he  came  down  the 
mountain  airain.  and  is  going  to  inform  us  once  more 
how  beautiful  Switzerland  is.  Not  at  all.  "When  I 
arrived  at  the  herdsman's  hut.  I  was  told  that  in  a 
meadow  far  up  the  Alps,  there  was  to  be  a  great  f§ta 


252  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

this  very  day,  and  I  saw  people  at  intervals  climbing 
the  mountain.  I  was  not  at  all  fatigued;  an  Alpine 
fete  is  not  to  be  seen  every  day  ;  the  weather  said, 
T/C.S;  the  guide  was  willing.  "Let  us  go  to  Intra- 
men,"  said  I.  The  old  herdsman  went  first,  so  we 
were  obliged  to  climb  very  vigorously;  for  Intra- 
mcn  is  more  than  a  thousand  feet  higher  than  the 
Lesser  Scheideck.  The  herdsman  was  a  ruthless 
fellow,  for  he  ran  on  before  us  like  a  cat ;  he  soon 
took  pity  on  my  guide,  and  relieved  him  of  my  cloak 
and  knapsack,  but  even  with  them  he  continued  to 
push  forward  so  eagerly  that  we  really  could  not 
keep  up  with  him.  The  path  was  frightfully  steep; 
he  extolled  it.  however,  saying  that  there  was  a  much 
nearer,  but  much  steeper  track  :  he  was  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  and  when  my  youthful  guide  and  I 
with  difficulty  surmounted  a  hill,  we  invariably  saw 
him  descending  the  next  one.  AVe  walked  on  for 
two  hours  in  the  most  fatiguing  path  I  ever  encoun- 
tered ;  first  a  steep  ascent,  then  down  again  into  a 
hollow,  over  heaps  of  crumbling  stones,  and  brooks 
and  ditches,  across  two  meadows  covered  with  snow, 
in  the  most  profound  solitude,  without  a  footpath, 
or  the  most  remote  trace  of  the  hand  of  man  ;  occa- 
sionally we  could  still  hear  the  avalanches  from  the 
Jungfrau ;  otherwise  all  was  still,  and  not  a  tree  to 
be  seen. 

When  this  silence  and  solitude  had  continued  for 
some  time,  and  we  had  clambered  to  the  top  of  a 
grassy  acclivity,  we  suddenly  came  in  sight  of  a  vast 
number  of  people  standing  in  a  circle,  laughing, 


AN    ALPINE    FETE.  253 

speaking,  and  shouting.  They  were  all  in  gay 
dresses,  and  had  flowers  in  their  hats ;  there  were 
a  great  many  girls,  some  tables  with  casks  of  wine, 
and  all  around  deep  solemn  silence,  and  tremendous 
mountains.  It  was  singular  that  while  I  was  in  the 
act  of  climbing,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  rocks  and 
stones,  and  the  snow  and  the  track;  but  the  moment 
I  saw  human  beings,  all  the  rest  was  forgotten,  and 
I  only  thought  of  men,  and  their  sports,  and  the 
merry  fete.  It  was  really  a  fine  sight.  The  scene 
was  in  a  spacious  green  meadow  far  above  the 
clouds  ;  opposite  were  the  snowy  mountains  in  all 
their  prodigious  altitude,  more  especially  the  dome 
of  the  great  Kiger,  the  Schreckhorn,  and  the  "Wetter- 
lii'iriier,  and  all  the  others  as  far  as  the  Bllimli's  Alp  ; 
the  Lauterbrunneii  valley  lay  far  beneath  us  in  the 
misty  depths,  quite  small,  as  well  as  our  road  of 
yesterday,  with  all  the  little  cataracts  like  threads, 
the  houses  like  dots,  and  the  trees  like  grass.  Far 
in  the  background  the  Lake  of  Than  occasionally 
glanced  out  of  the  mist. 

The  crowd  now  began  wrestling,  and  singing,  and 
drinking,  and  laughing ;  all  healthy,  strong  men.  I 
was  much  amused  by  the  wrestling,  which  I  had 
never  before  seen.  The  girls  served  the  men  with 
A'//'.sr '.wrs.se?-  and  Schnapps  •  the  flasks  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  1  drank  with  them,  and  gave  three 
little  children  some  cakes,  which  made  them  quite 
happy ;  a  very  tipsy  old  peasant  sang  me  some 
s'nigs;  then  they  all  sang  ;  then  the  guide  favoured 
us  \vith  a  modern  song;  and  then  little  boys  fought. 
22 


2D4  MENDELSSOHN  S    LETTERS. 

Everything  pleased  me  on  the  Alps,  and  I  remained 
lying  there  till  towards  evening,  and  made  myself 
quite  at  home.  We  descended  rapidly  into  the  mea- 
dows below,  and  soon  descried  the  familiar  inn,  and 
its  windows  glittering  in  the  evening  sun  ;  a  fresh 
breeze  from  the  glaciers  began  to  blow;  this  soon 
cooled  us.  It  is  now  getting  late,  and  from  time  to 
time  avalanches  arc  heard, — so  thus  has  my  Sunday 
been  spent. — A  fete-day  indeed  ! 

On  the  Faulhorn,  August  I  5th. 

I  am  shivering  with  cold  !  Outside  thick  snow  is 
falling,  and  the  wind  raging  and  blustering.  AVo 
are  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  a  long  tract  of  snow  to  traverse,  but  here  I  am  ! 
Nothing  can  be  seen;  all  day  the  weather  has  been 
dreadful.  AYhen  I  remember  how  fine  it  was  yester- 
day, while  I  earnestly  wish  that  it  may  be  as  fine  to- 
morrow, it  reminds  me  of  life,  for  we  are  always 
hovering  between  the  past  and  the  future.  Our 
excursion  of  yesterday  seems  as  far  past  and  remote, 
as  if  I  knew  it  only  from  old  memories,  and  had 
scarcely  been  present  myself ;  for  to-day  when  during 
five  mortal  hours  we  were  struggling  on,  against 
rain  and  fog,  sticking  in  the  mud,  and  seeing  nothing 
round  us  but  grey  vapours.  I  could  scarcely  realize 
that  it  ever  was  or  ever  will  be  again  fine  weather, 
or  that  I  ever  lay  idly  stretched  on  this  wet  marshy 
grass.  Besides,  everything  here  wears  such  a  wintry 
aspect;  heated  stoves,  thick  snow,  cloaks,  freezing, 
shivering  people.  I  am  at  this  moment  in  the  high- 
est inn  in  Europe;  and  just  as  in  St.  Peter's,  you 


THE    FAUI.IIORV.  255 

look  down  on  every  church,  and  on  the  S'implon, 
upon  every  road,  so  from  hence  I  look  dowu  on  all 
other  inns  ;  but  not  morally,  for  this  is  little  more 
than  a  few  wooden  planks.  Never  mind.  I  am 
now  Ailing1  to  bed.  and  I  will  no  lender  watch  my 
own  breath.  Goodnight!  ''Tom's  a  cold.'' 

Hospital,  August  iSth. 

I  have  not  been  aide  to  open  my  journal  for  two 
or  three  days,  as  when  night  came  J  had  no  longer 
time  for  anything,  but  to  dry  myself  and  my  clothes 
at  the  fire,  to  warm  myself,  to  sigh  over  the  weather, 
like  the  stove  behind  which  1  took  refuge,  and  to 
sleep  a  good  deal ;  besides,  I  did  not  wish  to  try  your 
patience,  by  my  everlasting  repetitions  of  how  deep 
1  had  sunk  in  the  mud,  and  how  incessantly  it  rained, 
and  so  forth.  During  the  last  few  days  in  reality  I 
went  through  the  most  beautiful  country,  and  yet 
saw  nothing  but  thick  fogs,  and  water  in  the  sky, 
and  from  the  sky,  and  on  the  earth.  I  passed  places 
that  I  had  long  wished  to  visit,  without  being  able 
to  enjoy  them;  what  also  damped  my  writing  mood, 
was  being  obliged  to  battle  with  the  weather,  and  if 
it  continues  the  same.  I  shall  only  write  occasionally, 
for  really  I  should  have  nothing  to  say.  but  "  a  grey 
sky — rain  and  fog."  1  have  been  on  the  Faulhorn, 
the  Great  Scheidcck,  on  Grimsel  Spital,  and  to-day 
I  crossed  Grimsel  and  Furka,  and  the  principal  ob- 
jects 1  have  seen  were  the  points  of  my  shabby  um- 
brella, and  I  had  not  even  a  glimpse  of  the  huge 
mountains.  At  one  moment,  to-day,  the  Fiusteraar- 
horu  came  to  light,  but  it  looked  as  savage  as  if  it 


25G  MKNDfcLKSOHX's    LETTERS. 

wished  to  devour  us  ;  and  yet  if  we  were  a  single 
Halt-hour  without  rain,  it  was  truly  beautiful.  A 
jotiiney  on  foot  through  this  country,  even  in  the 
most  unfavourable  weather,  is  the  most  enchanting 

O 

thing  you  can  possibly  imagine;  if  the  sky  were 
bright,  I  think  the  excess  of  pleasure  would  be  quite 
overpowering;  1  must  not  therefore  complain  too 
much  of  the  weather,  for  I  have  had  my  full  share 
of  enjoyment. 

During  the  last  few  days  I  felt  like  Tantalus. 
"\Yhen  I.  was  on  the  Schcideck,  a  glimpse  of  the 
lower  part  of  the  Wcttcrborn  was  sometimes  visible 
through  the  clouds,  and  it  seemed  beyond  measure 
magnificent  and  sublime;  but  I  only  saw  the  base. 
On  the  Faulhorn,  I  could  not  distinguish  objects 
fifty  paces  off,  although  I  stayed  there  till  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  We  went  down  to  the 
i^cheideck  in  a  heavy  snow-storm,  by  a  very  wet  and 
difficult  path,  which  the  incessant  rain  had  made 
worse  than  usual.  We  arrived  at  Grimsel  Spital  in 
rain  and  storm.  To-day  I  wished  to  have  ascended 
the  Sidelhorn,  but  was  obliged  to  give  it  up  on  ac- 
count of  the  fog.  The  Mayenwand  wa-s  shrouded  in 
grey  clouds,  and  we  had  only  a  single  peep  of  the 
Finsteraarhorn,  when  we  were  on  the  Furka.  We 
also  arrived  here  in  a  torrent  of  rain  and  water 
everywhere,  but  all  this  does  not  signify.  My  guide 
is  a  capital  fellow:  if  it  rains,  he  sings  and  jmltlt ; 
if  it  is  line,  so  much  the  better;  and  though  I  failed 
in  seeing  some  of  the  finest  objects,  still  I  saw  a 
great  deal  that  was  interesting. 


THE    GLACIERS.  257 

On    this    occasion    I    have    formed    a   particular 

friendship    for   the    glaciers;   they  art   indeed,  the 

most    marvellous    monsters    in    the   world.      How 

strangely  they  are  all  tumbled  about ;  here,  a  row 

of  jagged  points,  there,  toppling  crags,  and  above, 

towers  and  bastions,  while  on  every  side,  crevices 

and   ravines   are  visible,  all  of  the  most  wondrous 

pure  ice,  that  rejects  all  soil  of  earth,  casting  up 

again  on  the  surface  the  stones,  sand,  and  gravel, 

flung   down   by  the   mountains.     Then   the    superb 

colouring,  when  the  sun  shines  on  them,  and  their 

mysterious  advance — they  sometimes  move  on  a  foot 

and  a  half  in  a  single  day,  so  that  the  people  in  the 

village  are  in  the  greatest  anxiety  and  alarm,  when 

the   glacier  arrives   so   quietly,   and   yet  with  such 

irresistible   force,   for  it,  shivers   rocks   and  stones 

when  they  lie  in  the  way — then  the  ominous  crashing 

and  thundering,  and  the  rushing  of  so  many  springs 

near   and    round.     They  arc    splendid    miracles.     I 

was  in  the  Piosenlaui  glacier,  which  forms  a  kind  of 

cave,    that  you   can  creep   through ;   it   looks  as   if 

built,  of  emeralds,  only  more  transparent.      Above, 

around,  on  all  sides,  you  can  see  rivulets  running 

between  the  clear  ice.     In  the  centre  of  this  narrow 

passage,   the    ice  has    left    a   large   round   window, 

through   which   you   look   down  on   the  valley,  and 

issue   forth  again   under   an  arch  of   ice,   and   high 

above,  black  peaks    rear  their   heads,   from   which 

nv.i^ses  of  ice  roll  down  in  the  boldest  undulations. 

The  glacier  of  the  Rhone  is  the  most  imposing  that 

T  have  seen,  and  the  sun  burst  forth  on  it  as  we 

22* 


258  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

passed  early  this  morning.  This  is  a  suggestive 
sight,  and  you  get  a  casual  glimpse  of  the  rocky 
peak  of  a  mountain,  a  plateau  covered  with  snow, 
cataracts,  and  bridges  spanning  them,  and  masses  of 
crumbling  stones  and  rocks  ;  in  short,  even  if  you 
see  little  in  Switzerland,  it  is  at  all  events  more 
than  is  to  be  seen  in  any  other  country. 

I  have  been  drawing  very  busily,  and  think  I  have 
made  some  progress.  I  even  tried  to  sketch  the 
Jungfrau  ;  it  will  at  least  serve  as  a  reminiscence, 
and  I  can  enjoy  the  thought  that  these  strokes  were 
actually  made  on  the  spot  itself.  I  see  people  rush- 
ing through  Switzerland,  and  declaring  that  they 
find  nothing  to  admire  there,  or  anywhere  elsi; 
(except  themselves) ;  not  the  least  affected  nor 
roused,  remaining  cold  and  prosaic,  even  in  pre- 
sence of  the  mountains  ;  when  I  meet  such  people 
I  should  like  to  give  them  a  good  drubbing. 
Two  Englishmen  and  an  English  lady  are  at  this 
moment  sitting  beside  me  near  the  stove;  they  are 
as  wooden  as  sticks.  We  have  been  travelling  the 
same  road  for  a  couple  of  days,  and  I  declare  the 
people  have  never  uttered  a  syllable  except  of  abuse  , 
that  there  were  no  fireplaces  either  on  the  (Jrimsel, 
or  here;  but  that  there  are  mountain*  here,  is  a  fact 
to  which  they  never  allude  ;  their  whole  journey  is 
occupied  in  scolding  their  guide,  who  laughs  at 
them,  in  quarrelling  with  the  innkeepers,  and  in 
yawning  in  each  others'  faces.  They  think  every- 
thing commonplace,  because  they  are  themsehes 
commonplace,  therefore  they  are  not  happier  in 


swiss  SCENERY.  259 

Switzerland  than  they  would  be  in  Bcrnau.  I  main- 
tain that  happiness  is  relative;  another  would  thank 
God  that  he  could  see  all  this,  and  so  I  will  be  that 

other ! 

Fluelen,  August  1 9th. 

A  day  made  for  a  journey ;  fine,  and  enjoyable, 
and  bracing.  When  we  wished  to  start  this  morning 
at  six  o'clock,  there  was  such  a  storm  of  sleet  and 
snow  that  we  were  obliged  to  wait  till  nine  o'clock, 
when  the  sun  came  forth,  the  clouds  dispersed,  and 
we  had  delightful  bright  weather  as  far  as  this  place  ; 
but  now  sombre  clouds,  heavy  with  rain,  have  col- 
lected over  the  lake,  so  that  no  doubt  to-morrow  the 
old  troubles  will  break  loose  again.  But  how  glorious 
this  day  has  been,  so  clear  and  sunny — we  had  the 
most  charming  journey  !  You  know  the  St.  (Jothard 
Road  in  all  its  beauty ;  you  lose  much  by  coming 
down  from  above,  instead  of  ascending  from  this 
point,  for  the  grand  surprise  of  the  Urner  Loch  is 
entirely  lost,  and  the  new  road  which  has  been  made, 
with  all  the  grandeur,  as  well  as  convenience,  of  the 
Simplon,  impairs  the  e fleet  of  the  Devil's  Bridge  : 
inasmuch  as  close  beside  it  a  new  arch,  much  bolder 
and  larger,  has  been  constructed,  which  makes  the 
old  bridge  look  quite  insignificant,  but  the  ancient 
crumbling  walls  look  much  more  romantic  and  pictu- 
resque. Though  the  view  of  Andermatt  is  thus  lost, 
and  the  new  Devil's  Bridge  far  from  being  poetical, 
still  you  go  merrily  downhill  all  day,  on  a  delight- 
fully smooth  road,  flying  rapidly  past  the  various 
localities,  and  instead  of  being  sprinkled  by  the  foam 


260  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

of  the  waterfall  on  the  old  bridge  as  formerly,  and 
endanger 'd  by  the  wind,  you  now  pass  uli.ug  far 
above  the  stream,  beUvee.!  t\vo  ranges  of  solid 
parapets. 

We  came  past  (Joschenen  and  Wasen.and  p resent h 
appeared  tlie  huge  lirs  and  beech-trees  close  to  Am- 
steg;  then  the  charming-  valley  of  Aitorf.  v.-ith  its 
cottages,  meadows,  and  \voods.  its  rocks  and  snowy 
mountains.  AVc  rested  at  Aitorf  in  a  Capuchin 
('invent,  situated  rn  a  height;  and  finally,  here  I 
am  (.11  the  hunks  of  the  Vienvald.-tudt  Lake.  Tu- 
rn rrow  I  purpose  crossing  the  lake  to  Lucerne, 
where  I  hope  to  tind  letters  from  you.  I  shall  then 
also  get  rid  of  a  party  of  yeung  people  from  J'erlin, 
who  have  been  pursuing  almost  the  same  route  with 
me.  meeting  me  at  every  turn,  and  boring  me  terri- 
bly ;  the  patriotism  of  a  lieutenant,  a  d\er,  ami  a 
young  carpenter, — all  three  bent  on  destroying 
France, — \vas  peculiarly  distasteful  to  me. 

Sarncn,  the  icth. 

I  crossed  the  Vier.vuldstudt  Lake  early  this  morn- 
ing, in  a  continued  pour  of  rain,  and  found  your 
welcome  letter  of  the  f)ih  in  Lucerne.  As  it  con- 
tained nothing  but  good  tidings.  I  immediately 
arranged  a  tour  of  three,  days  to  Unterwalden  and 
the  I'niuig.  I  intend  to  call  airi'u  at  Lucerne  fi  r 
your  next  letter,  and  then  I  am  <.!!'  to  the  We.-t.  and 
out  of  Swii/.'iv.ind.  1  shall  take  leave  of  it  \\V<  h 
deep  regret.  Tlie  country  is  beautiful  beyond  ail 
conception  ;  and  though  the  weather  is  again  odious, 
—rain  and  storms  the  whole  day,  and  all  through 


261 

the  night. — yet  the  Tcllon  Plattc.  the  Grlit.i,  Bran- 
nen  and  rfchwytz,  and  the  dazzling  green  of  the 
meadows  this  evening  in  Untenvalden,  are  too  lovely 
ever  to  be  forgotten.  The  hue  of  this  green  is  most 
unique,  refreshing  the  eye  and  the  whole  being.  I 
shall  certainly  attend  to  your  kind  precautionary 
injunctions,  dear  Mother,  but  you  need  be  under 
no  apprehensions  about  me.  I  am  by  no  means 
careless  with  regard  to  my  health,  and  have  not,  for 
a  long  time,  felt  so  well  a.<  during  my  pedestrian 
excursions  in  Switzerland.  If  eaiing,  and  drinking, 
and  sleeping,  and  music  in  one's  head,  can  make  a 
man  healthy,  then,  God  be  praised.  1  may  well  call 
myself  so;  for  my  guide  and  I  vie  with  each  other 
in  eating  and  drinking,  and  not  less  so  unluckily  in 
singing.  In  sleeping  alone  I  surpass  him;  and 
though  I  sometimes  di>turb  him  by  my  trumpet  01 
oboe  tones,  he  in  turn  cuts  short  my  morning  sleep. 
Please  God,  therefore,  we  shall  have  a  happy  meet- 
ing. Before  that  time  arrives,  however,  many  a  page 
of  my  journal  must  yet  travel  to  you ;  but  even  this 
interval  will  quickly  pass,  just  as  everything  quickly 
passes,  except  indeed  what  is  best  of  all  ! — so  let  us 
be  true  and  loving  to  each  other.  FELIX. 


Engelberg,  August  23rd,  1831. 

My  heart  is  so  full  that  I  must  tell  you  about  it. 
In  this   enchanting   valley  I  have  just   taken  up 


2G2  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Schiller's  "AVilhelm  Tell."  and  read  half  of  the  first 
scene;  there  is  surely  no  genius  like  that  of  Ger- 
many! Heaven  know.-;  why  it  is  so.  but  I  do  thiuk 
that  no  other  nation  could  fully  comprehend  such  an 
opening  scene,  far  less  be  able  1o  compose  it.  This 
is  what  I  call  a  poem,  and  a  beginning;  first  the 
pure,  clear  verse,  in  which  the  lake,  smooth  as  A 
mirror,  and  all  else,  is  so  vividly  described,  and  then 
the  slow  commonplace  Swiss  talk,  and  Baumgarten 
coining  in, — it  is  quite  glorious!  How  fresh,  how 
powerful,  how  exciting  !  We  have  no  such  work  as 
this  in  music,  and  yet  even  that  sphere  ought  one 
day  to  produce  something  equally  perfect.  It  is  so 
admirable  in  him  too,  to  have  created  an  entire 
Switzerland  for  himself,  inasmuch  as  he  never  saw 
it,  and  yet  all  is  so  faithful  and  so  strikingly  truth- 
ful ;  the  people  and  life,  the  scenery  and  nature.  I 
was  delighted  when  the  old  innkeeper  here,  in  a 
solitary  mountain  village,  brought  me  from  the 
monastery  the  book  with  the  well-known  characters 
and  old  familiar  names  ;  but  the  opening  again  quite 
surpassed  all  my  expectations.  It  is  now  more 
than  four  years  since  I  read  it.  I  mean  presently  to 
go  over  to  the  monastery,  to  work  off  my  excite- 
ment on  the  organ. 

Afternoon. 

Do  not  be  astonished  at  my  enthusiasm,  but  read 
the  scene  through  again  yourself,  and  then  yon  will 
find  my  excitement  quite  natural.  Such  passages 
as  those  whjre  all  the  shepherds  and  hunters  shout 


.CCIIILI,ER'S  '  WILOELM  TELL.'  263 

"Save  him  !  save  him  !  "  in  the  close  at  the  Gru'tli, 
when  the  sun  is  about  to  rise,  could  indeed  only 
have  occurred  to  a  German,  and  above  all  to 
Schiller ;  and  the  whole  piece  is  crowded  with 
similar  passages.  Let  me  refer  to  that  particular 
one  at  the  end  of  the  second  scene,  where  Tell  comes 
with  the  rescued  Baumgarten  to  Staufl'achcr.  and 
the  agitating  conference  closes  in  such  tranquillity 
and  peace  :  this,  along  with  the  beauty  of  the 
thought,  is  so  thoroughly  Swiss.  Then  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Griitli — the  symphony  which  the  or- 
chestra ought  to  play  at  the  end  1  composed  in  my 
mind  to-day,  because  I  could  do  nothing  satisfactory 
on  the  little  organ:  altogether  a  variety  of  plans 
and  ideas  occurred  to  me.  There  is  a  vast  deal  to 
do  in  this  world,  and  I  mean  to  be  industrious.  The 
expression  that  Goethe  m.ide  use  of  to  me,  that 
Schiller  could  have  t<tippli>-d  two  great  tragedies 
every  year,  with  its  business-like  tone,  always  in- 
spired mi'  with  particular  respect :  but  not  till  this 
morning  did  the  full  force  of  its  signification  become 
clear  to  me.  and  it  has  made  me  feel  that  I  must  set 
to  work  in  earnest.  Even  the  mistakes  are  capti- 
vating, and  there  is  something  grand  in  them  ;  and 
though  certainly  Bertha,  Rudenz,  and  old  Attiug- 
hausen,  seem  to  me  great  blemishes,  still  Schiller's 
idea  is  evident,  and  he  was  in  a  manner  forced  to  do 
as  he  has  done  ;  and  it  is  consolatory  to  find  that 
even  so  great  a  man  could  for  once  commit  such  an 
egregious  mistake. 

I  lr>.ve  passed  a  most  enjoyable  morning,  and  T 


264  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

feel  in  the  kind  of  mood  which  makes  yon  long  to 
recall  such  a  man  to  life,  in  order  to  thank  him.  and 
inspiring  an  earnest  desire,  one  day,  to  compose  a 
work  which  shall  impress  others  with  similar  feelings. 
Probably  you  do  not  understand  what  induced  me 
to  take  up  my  quarters  here  in  Kngelbcrg.  It  hap- 
pened thus  : — I  have  not  had  a  single  day's  rest 
since  I  left  Untersee,  and  therefore  wished  to  remain 
for  a  day  at  Meiringen,  but  was  tempted  by  the 
lovely  weather  in  the  morning,  to  come  on  here. 
The  usual  rain  and  wind  assailed  me  on  the  moun- 
tains, and  so  I  arrived  very  tired.  This  is  the 
nicest  inn  imaginable, — clean,  tidy,  very  small  and 
rustic, — an  old  white-hailed  innkeeper;  a  wooden 
house,  situated  in  a  meadow,  a  little  apart  from  the 
road;  and  the  people  so  kind  and  cordial,  that  I  feel 
quite  at  home.  I  think  this  kind  of  domestic  com- 
fort is  only  to  be  found  among  those  who  speak  the 
German  tongue ;  at  all  events.  I  never  met  with  it 
anywhere  else;  and  though  other  nations  may  not 
feel  the  want  of  it.  or  scarcely  care  about  it.  still  1 
am  a  native  of  Hamburg,  and  so  it  makes  me  feel 
happy  and  at  home.  It  is  not  therefore  strange  that 
I  decided  on  taking  my  day's  rest  here  with  these 
worthy  old  people.  My  room  has  windows  on  every 
side,  commanding  a  view  of  the  valley  :  the  room  is 
prettily  panelled  with  wood;  some  coloured  texts 
and  a  crucifix  are  hanging  on  the  walls  ;  there  is  a 
solid  green  stove,  and  a  bench  encircling  it.  and  two 
lofty  bedsteads.  When  1  am  lying  in  bed  1  have 
the  following  view  : — 


COMFORTABLE 


I  have  failrd  ;:^-ain  in  my  buildings,  and  in  the 
hills  too.  but  1  hope  to  make  a  better  sketch  of  it 
for  you  in  my  book,  if  the  weather  is  tolerable  to- 
morrow. I  shall  always  consider  this  valley  to  be 
one  of  the  loveliest  in  ail  Switzerland.  I  have  not 
yet  seen  the  .tntrantic  mountains  by  which  it  is  en- 
compassed, as  they  have  been  all  day  shrouded  in 
mist;  but  the  beautiful  meadows,  the  numerous 
brooks,  the  house-,  and  the  foot  of  the  hills,  so  far 
as  I  could  see  them,  are  exquisitely  lovely.  The 
green  of  the  Unterwalden  is  more  brilliant  than  in 
any  other  canton,  and  it  is  celebrated  for  its  meadows 


2GG  MENDELSSOHN'S  I-ETTERS 

even  among  the  Swiss.  The  previous  journey  too 
from  Harncn  was  enchanting,  and  never  did  I  see 
larger  or  finer  trees,  or  a  more  fruitful  country 
Moreover  the  road  is  attended  with  as  few  difficul- 
ties as  if  you  were  traversing  a  large  garden  ;  the 
declivities  are  clothed  with  tall  slender  beeches;  the 
stones  overgrown  by  moss  and  herbs;  then  there 
are  springs,  brooks,  small  lakes,  and  houses  :  on  cue 
side  is  a  view  of  the  Untenvalden  and  its  green 
plains  ;  and  shortly  after  a  view  of  the  whole  vale 
of  llasli,  the  snowy  mountains,  and  cataracts  leaping 
down  from  rocky  precipices  ;  the  road  too  is  shaded 
tae  whole  way  by  enormous  trees. 

Yesterday,  early,  as  I  told  you,  I  was  tempted  by 
the  bright  sun  to  cross  the  Genthcl  valley  to  ascend 
the  Joch,  but  on  the  summit  the  most  dreadful 
weather  set  in  ;  we  were  obliged  to  make  our  way 
through  the  snow,  and  this  was  sometimes  anvthing 

O  v  O 

but  pleasant.  We  speedily,  however,  emerged  out 
of  the  sleet  and  snow,  and  an  enchanting  moment 
ensued,  when  the  clouds  broke,  while  we  were  still 
standing  in  them ;  and  far  beneath  us,  we  saw 
through  the  mists  as  through  a  black  veil,  the 
green  valley  of  Engelberg.  ~\Ve  soon  made  our  way 
down,  and  heard  the  silvery  bell  of  the  monastery 
ring  out  the  Ave  Maria.  We  next  saw  the  white 
building  on  the  meadow,  and  arrived  here  after  an 
expedition  of  nine  hours.  I  need  not  say  how 
acceptable  at  such  a  time  is  a  comfortable  inn,  and 
how  good  the  rice  and  milk  seems,  and  how  long  yon 
sleep  next  moruiug. 


SCHILLER'S  '  WILHEI.M  TELI..'  267 

To-day  we  have  had  very  disagreeable  weather,  so 
they  brought  me  "  Wilhelm  Toll  "  from  the  library 
of  the  monastery,  and  the  rest  you  know.  I  was 
much  struck  by  Schiller  having  so  completely  failed 
in  portraying  lludenz,  for  the  whole  character  is 
feeble,  and  without  sufficient  motive,  and  it  seems 
as  if  he  had  resolved  purposely  to  represent  him 
throughout,  in  the  worst  possible  light.  His  words, 
in  the  scene  with  the  apple,  might  lend  to  redeem 
him,  but  b"ing  preceded  by  that  with  Bertha,  they 
make  no  impression.  When  he  joins  the  Swiss,  after 
the  death  of  Attingbausen.  it  might  be  supposed 
that  he  is  changed,  bat  he  instantly  proclaims  that 
his  Bertha  is  curried  oil',  so  again  he  has  as  little 
merit  as  ever.  It  occurred  to  me  that  if  he  had 
uttered  the  very  same  manly  words  against  Gessler, 
•without  the  explanation  with  Bertha  having  pre- 
viously taken  place,  and  if  such  a  result  had  arisen 
out  of  this  in  the  following  act,  the  character  would 
have  been  much  better,  and  the  explanatory  scene 
not  so  merely  theatrical  as  it  now  is.  This  is  cer- 
tainly very  like  1he  egg  and  the  hen,  but  I  should 
like  to  hear  your  opinion  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not 
speak  to  one  of  our  learned  men  on  such  matters ; 
these  gentlemen  arc  a  vast  deal  too  wise  !  If  how- 
ever I  chance  some  of  these  days  to  meet  one  of 
those  youthful  modern  poets,  who  look  down  on 
Schiller,  and  only  partly  approve  of  him  ;  so  much 
the  worse  for  him,  for  J  must  infallibly  crush  him  ta 
death. 

Now,  good  night ;   I  must  rise  very  early  to-mor- 


268  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

row ;  it  is  to  be  a  grand  fete  to-day  in  the  monastery, 
and  a  solemn  religious  service,  and  I  am  to  play  the 
organ  for  them.  The  monks  were  listening  this 
morning  while  I  was  extemporizing  a  little,  and 
were  so  pleased,  that  they  invited  me  to  play  the 
people  in  and  out  at  their  festival  to-morrow.  The 
father  organist  has  also  given  me  the  subject  on 
which  I  am  to  extemporize  ;  it  is  better  than  any 
that  would  have  occurred  to  an  organist  in  Italy. 

Adagio. 


I  shall  see  to-morrow  what  I  can  make  of  this.  I 
played  a  couple  of  new  pieces  of  mine  on  the  organ 
this  afternoon  in  the  church,  and  they  sounded 
latherwell.  When  I  came  past  the  monastery  the 
same  evening,  the  church  was  closed,  and  scarcely 
were  the  doors  shut,  when  the  monks  began  to  sing 
imcturns  fervently,  in  the  dark  church  ;  they  intoned 
the  deep  B.  which  vibrated  splendidly,  and  could  be 
heard  far  down  the  valley. 

August  24th. 

This  has  been  another  splendid  day — the  weather 
origlit  and  enjoyable,  and  the  bluest  sky  that  I  have 
seen  since  1  left  Chamouni;  it  was  a  holiday  in  the 
village,  and  in  all  the  mountains.  After  long-con- 
tinued fogs,  and  every  variety  of  bad  weather,  encc 
more  to  see  from  the  window  in  the  morning  the 
clear  range  of  mountains  and  their  pinnacles,  is  in- 


VALLEY    OF    EXGELBERG.  269 

deed  a  grand  spectacle.  They  are  acknowledged  to 
be  finest  after  rain,  and  to-day  they  looked  as  fresh 
as  if  newly  created.  This  valley  is  not  surpassed 
liy  any  in  Switzerland.  If  I  ever  return  here  this 
shall  be  my  head-quarters,  for  it  is  even  more  lovely, 
and  more  spacious  and  unconfined  than  Chamouni, 
and  more  free  than  Interlaken.  The  Spann-iirter 
are  incredibly  grand  peaks,  and  the  round  Titlis 
heavily  laden  with  snow,  the  foot  of  which  lies  in  the 
meadows,  and  the  effect  of  the  Urner  rocks  in  the 
distance,  are  also  well  worth  seeing:  it  is  now  full 
moon,  and  the  valley  is  clothed  in  beauty. 

This  whole  day  ]  have  done  nothing  but  sketch, 
and  play  the  organ  :  in  the  morning  I  performed  my 
duties  as  organist — it  was  a  grand  affair.  The  organ 
stands  clo^e  to  the  high  altar,  next  to  the  stalls  for 
the  "patres;" — sol  took  my  place  in  the  midst  of 
the  monks,  a  very  Saul  among  the  prophets.  An 
impatient  Benedictine  at  my  side  played  the  double 
bass,  and  others  the  violins;  one  of  their  dignitaries 
was  first  violin.  The  pater  prceceptor  stood  in  front 
of  me.  sang  a  solo,  and  conducted  with  a  long  stick, 
as  thick  as-  my  arm.  The  &&vcs  in  the  monastery 
formed  the  choir,  in  their  black  cowls;  an  old  de- 
cayed rustic  played  on  an  old  decayed  oboe,  and  at 
a  little  distance  two  mure  were  pulling  away  com- 
posedly at  two  huge  trumpets  with  green  tassels; 
and  yet  with  all  this  the  affair  was  gratifying.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  like  the  people,  for  they  had 
plenty  of  zeal,  and  all  worked  away  as  well  as  they 
could.  A  mass,  by  Emmerich,  was  given,  and  every 
23* 


270  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

note  of  it  betrayed  its  "powder  and  pigtail."  I 
played  thorough-bass  faithfully  from  my  ciphered 
part,  adding  wind  instruments  from  time  to  lime, 
when  I  was  weary ;  made  the  responses,  extempo- 
rized on  the  appointed  theme,  and  at  the  end,  by 
desire  of  the  Prelate,  played  a  march,  in  spite  of  my 
repugnance  to  do  this  on  the  organ,  and  was  then 
honourably  dismissed. 

This  afternoon  I  played  again  alone  to  the  monks, 
who  gave  me  the  finest  subjects  in  the  world — the 
"  Credo"  among  others — a  fantasia  on  the  latter  was 
very  successful ;  it  is  the  only  one  that  in  my  life  I 
ever  wished  I  could  have  written  down,  but  now  I 
can  only  remember  its  general  purport,  and  must 
ask  permission  to  send  Fanny,  in  this  letter,  a  pas- 
sage that  I  do  not  wish  to  forget.  By  degrees  various 
counter  subjects  were  introduced  in  opposition  to 
the  canto  fenno  ;  first  dotted  notes,  then  triplets, 
at  last  rapid  semiquavers,  through  which  the  "  Credo" 
was  to  work  its  way  ;  quite  at  the  close,  the  semiqua 
vers  became  very  wild,  and  arpeggios  followed  on 
the  whole  organ  in  G  minor.  I  proceeded  to  take  up 
the  theme  on  the  pedal  in  long  notes  (during  the 
continued  arpeggios),  so  that  it  ended  with  A.  On 
the  A,  I  made  a  pedal  point  in  arpeggios,  and  then 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  play  the  arpeggios 
with  the  left  hand  alone,  so  that  the  right  hand 
could  introduce  the  "  Credo"  again  in  the  treble 
with  A,  thus  : — 


FANTASIA    ON    THE    CREDO. 


271 


SnE^Jtf                  :-i^r-q 
_^JL_f — i ,J? d 


etc. 


This  was  followed  by  a  stop  on  the  last  note,  and 
a  pause,  and  then  it  concluded.  I  wish  you  had 
heard  it,  for  I  a-m  sure  you  would  have  been  pleased. 
It  was  time  for  the  monks  to  £i'o  to  complines,  and 
we  took  leave  of  each  other  cordially.  They  wished 
to  p'ive  me  letters  of  introduction  for  some  other 
places  in  Untenvalden,  but  I  declined  this,  as  I  in- 
tend to  go  to  Lucerne  early  to-morrow,  and  after 
that  I  expect  not  to  be  more  than  five  or  six  days 
longer  in  Switzerland. — Your  FELIX. 


?.T2  MENDELSSOHN'S    I.KTTFMIS. 

To  "NYiuiKLM  TAUBKUT. 

Lucerne,  August  ayth,  1831. 

I  wish  to  offer  you  my  thanks,  but  1  really  do  not 
know  where  to  begin  first  ;  whether  for  the  pleasure 
your  songs  caused  nie  in  Milan,  or  for  your  kind 
letter  which  ]  received  yesterday;  both  however  arc- 
closely  connected,  and  so  I  think  we  have  already 
made  acquaintance.  ]t  is  quite  as  fitting-  that  we 
should  lie  presented  to  each  other  through  the 
medium  of  music-paper,  as  by  a  third  person  in 
society;  indeed  1  think  that  in  the  former  case  you 
feel  even  more  intimate  and  confidential.  Moreover, 
persons  who  introduce  any  one  often  pronounce  the 
name  so  indistinctly,  that  you  seldom  know  who  is 
standing1  before  you  ;  and  they  never  say  one  word 
as  to  whether  the  man  is  gay  and  good-humoured, 
or  melancholy  and  gloomy.  So  we  are  infinitely 
better  off.  Your  songs  have  pronounced  your  name 
clearly  and  plainly  ;  they  also  disclose  what  you 
think  and  what  you  are;  that  you  love  music,  and 
•wish  to  make  progress;  so  thus  perhaps  I  know  you 
better  than  if  we  had  frequently  met. 

"What  a  source  of  pleasure  it  is.  and  how  cheering;, 
to  know  there  is  another  musician  in  the  world  who 
has  the  same  purposes  and  aspirations,  and  who  fol- 
lows the  same  path  as  yourself;  perhaps  yon  cannot 
feel  this  so  strongly  as  1  do  at  this  moment,  who 
have  just  come  from  a  countn  where  music  no  longer 
exists  among  the  people.  I  never  before  could  have 
believed  this  of  any  nation,  and  least  of  all  of  Italy, 


DECLINE    OF    MUSK1    IX    ITALY.  273 

with  such  rich  and  luxuriant  nature,  and  such 
glorious,  inspiriting  antecedents.  But  alas !  the 
occurrences  I  latterly  witnessed  there,  fully  proved 
to  me  that  even  more  than  harmony  is  dead  in  that 
land;  it  would  indeed  be  marvellous  if  any  niusic 
could  exist  where  there  is  no  solid  principle.  At 
last  I  was  really  bewildered,  and  thought  that  I 
must  have  become  a  hypochondriac,  for  all  the  buf- 
foonery 1  saw  was  most  distasteful  to  me,  and  yet  a 
vast  number  of  serious  people  and  sedate  citizens 
entered  into  it.  When  they  played  me  anything  of 
their  own,  and  afterwards  praised  and  extolled  my 
pieces,  1  cannot  tell  you  how  repugnant  it  was  to 
me  ;  I  felt  disposed  to  become  a  hermit,  with  beard 
and  cowl,  and  the  whole  world  was  at  a  discount  with 
me.  In  Italy  you  first  learn  to  value  a  true  musi- 
cian; that  is,  one  whose  thoughts  are  absorbed  in 
r/(«.s/c,  and  not  in  money,  or  decorations,  or  ladies, 
or  fame;  it  is  doubly  delightful  when  you  find  that, 
without  your  being  aware  of  it,  your  own  ideas  exist 
and  are  developed  elsewhere  ;  your  songs  therefore 
gave  me  especial  pleasure,  because  I  could  gather 
from  them  that  you  must  be  a  genuine  musician,  and 
so  let  us  mutually  stretch  out  our  hands  across  the 
mountains. 

I  beg  that  you  will  also  look  on  me  in  the  light 
of  a  friend,  and  not  write  so  formally  as  to  my 
"counsel"  and  ••teaching."  This  portion  of  your 
letter  makes  me  feel  almost  nervous,  and  I  scarcely 
know  what  to  say  ;  the  most  agreeable  part  however 
is  your  promise  to  send  me  something  to  Munich, 


274  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

and  to  write  to  me  again.  I  will  then  tell  you 
frankly  and  freely  my  honest  opinion,  and  you  shall 
do  the  same  with  regard  to  my  new  compositions, 
and  thus  I  think  we  shall  give  each  other  good 
counsel.  I  am  very  eager  to  see  those  recent  works 
of  yours  that  you  have  promised  me,  for  I  do  not 
doubt  that  I  shall  receive  much  gratification  from 
them,  and  many  things  which  are  only  foreshadowed 
in  the  former  songs,  will  probably  in  these  become 
manifest  and  distinct.  I  shall  therefore  say  nothing 
to-day  of  the  impression  your  songs  have  made  on 
me,  because  possibly  any  suggestion  or  question 
may  be  already  answered  in  what  you  arc  about  tc 
send  me.  I  earnestly  entreat  of  you  to  write  to  me 
fully,  and  in  detail,  about  yourself,  in  order  that  we 
may  become  better  acquainted.  I  can  then  write  to 
you  what  I  purpose  and  what  I  think,  and  thus  we 
shall  continue  in  close  connection. 

Let  me  know  what  you  have  recently  composed 
and  are  now  composing;  your  mode  of  life  in  Berlin, 
and  your  plans  for  the  future;  in  short  all  that  con- 
cerns your  musical  life,  which  will  be  of  the  greatest 
interest  to  me.  Probably  this  will  be  obvious  in 
the  music  you  have  so  kindly  promised  me,  but  for- 
tunately both  may  be  combined.  Have  you  hitherto 
composed  nothing  on  a  greater  scale ;  some  wild 
symphony,  or  opera,  or  something  of  the  kind  ?  1, 
for  my  part,  feel  at  this  moment  the  most  invincible 
desire  to  write  an  opera,  and  yet  1  have  scarcely 
leisure  even  to  commence  any  work,  however  small. 
I  do  believe  that  if  the  libretto  were  to  be  irivcn  to 


WISH  TO  COMPOSE  AN  OPERA.         275 

me  to-day,  the  opera  would  be  written  by  to-morrow, 
so  strong  is  my  impulse  towards  it.  Formerly  the 
bare  idea  of  a  symphony  was  so  exciting,  that  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else  when  one  was  in  my 
head ;  the  sound  of  instruments  has  such  a  solemn 
and  glorious  effect;  and  yet  for  some  time  past  I 
have  laid  aside  a  symphony  that  I  had  commenced, 
in  order  to  compose  on  a  cantata  of  Goethe's  merely 
because  it  included,  besides  the  orchestra,  voices 
and  a  chorus.  I  intend  now,  indeed,  to  complete 
the  symphony,  but  there  is  nothing  I  so  strongly 
covet  as  a  regular  opera. 

Where  the  libretto  is  to  come  from  I  know  less 
than  ever  since  last  night,  when  for  the  first  time 
for  more  than  a  year  I  saw  a  German  aesthetic 
paper.  The  German  Parnassus  seems  in  as  disor- 
ganized a  condition  as  European  politics.  God  help 
us  !  1  was  obliged  to  digest  the  supercilious  Mcnzel, 
who  presumed  modestly  to  depreciate  Goethe, — and 
tlie  supercilious  Grabbe.  who  modestly  depreciates 
Shakspeare, — and  the  philosophers  who  proclaim 
Schiller  to  be  rather  trivial  !  Is  this  new,  arrogant, 
overbearing  spirit,  this  perverse  cynicism,  as  odious 
to  you  as  it  is  to  me?  and  are  you  of  the  same 
opinion  with  myself,  that  the  first  and  most  indis- 
pensable quality  of  any  artist  is  to  feel  respect  for 
great  men,  and  to  bow  down  in  spirit  before  them; 
to  recognize  their  merits,  and  not  to  endeavour  to 
extinguish  their  great  flame,  in  order  that  his  own 
feeble  rushlight  may  burn  a  little  brighter?  If  a 
person  be  iucapabie  of  feeling  true  greatness,  I 


276  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

should  like  to  know  how  he  intends  to  make  me.  feel 
it?  And  as  all  these  people,  with  their  airs  of 
contempt,  only  at  last  succeed  in  producing  imitu- 
titms  of  this  or  that  particular  Torn),  without  any  pre- 
sentiment of  free,  fresh,  creative  power,  unfettered 
by  individual  opinion,  or  aesthetics  or  criticism,  or 
the  whole  world  besides;  as  this  is  the  ease,  do  they 
not  deserve  to  be  abused?  and  1  do  abuse  them. 
Pray  do  not  take  this  amiss  ;  perhaps  I  have  gone 
too  far.  I5ut  it  was  long-  since  1  had  read  anything 
of  the  kind,  and  it  vexes  me  to  see  that  such  folly 
still  goes  on.  and  that  the  philosopher  who  maintains 
that  art  is  dead,  still  persists  in  declaring'  that  it  is 
so;  as  if  art  could  in  reality  ever  die. 

These  are  truly  strange,  wild,  and  troubled  times; 
and  let  those  who  feel  that  art  is  no  more,  allow  it 
for  Heaven's  sake  to  rest  in  peace;  but  however 
roughly  the  storm  m:iy  rage  without,  it  cannot  so 
quickly  succeed  in  sweeping  away  the  dwelling1;  and 
he  who  works  on  quietly  within,  fixing-  his  thoughts 
on  his  own  capabilities  and  purposes,  and  not  on 
those  of  others,  will  sec  the  hurricane  blow  over, 
and  afterwards  find  it  difficult  to  realize  that  it 
ever  was  so  violent  as  it  appeared  at  the  time.  1 
have  resolved  to  act  thus  so  long  as  I  can,  and  to 
pursue  my  path  steadily,  for  at  all  events  no  one 
will  deny  that  music  still  exists,  and  that  is  the  chief 
tiling. 

HMW  cheering1  it  is  to  meet  with  a  person  who  1: 2.3 
chosen  the  same  (.i^cct  and  the  same  ni'-ans  as 
yourself!  and  I  would  fain  tell  you  hov,' gratifying 


THE    RIGIII    CTLM.  271 

each  now  corroboration  of  this  is  to  me,  but  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  do  so.  You  must  imagine  it 
for  yourself,  and  your  own  thoughts  must  supply  any 
deficiencies;  so  farewell!  Pray  let  me  hear  from 
you  soon,  and  frequently.  I  beg  to  send  my  kindest 
wishes  to  our  dear  fi  iend  Berger  ;*  I  have  been 
long  intending  to  write  to  him,  but  have  never  yet 
accomplished  it.  I  shall  certainly  however  do  so 
one  of  these  days.  Forgive  this  long,  dry  letter , 
next  time  it  shall  be  more  interesting,  and  now  once 
more  farewell. — Yours, 

FELIX  MENDELSSOHN  BARTHOLDY. 


Righi  Culm,  August  3oth,  1831. 

I  am  on  the  liighi !  I  need  say  no  more,  for  you 
know  this  mountain.  What  can  be  more  grand  or 
superb  ?  I  left  Lucerne  early  this  morning.  All 
the  mountains  were  obseured,  and  the  weather-wise 
prophesied  bad  weather.  As  however  I  have  always 
found  that  the  very  opposite  of  what  the  wise  people 
say  invariably  occurs  !  I  tried  to  make  out  signs  for 
myself,  though  hitherto,  in  spite  of  their  aid,  I  have 
found  my  predictions  quite  as  false  as  those  of  the 
others;  but  this  morning  I  really  thought  the  weather 
very  tolerable ;  still,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  begin  my 
ascent  while  all  was  still  shrouded  in  vapour  ( for 
the  Faulhorn  had  taught  me  caution),  1  spent  the 

*  Ludwig  Berger,  Mendelssohn's  instructor  ou  the  piano. 

24 


273  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

whole  morning  in  sauntering-  round  the  foot  of  the 
Ilighi,  gazing  eagerly  upwards,  to  see  if  the  mists 
were  likely  to  clear  oil'.  At  last,  about  twelve 
o'clock,  at  Kiissnacht,  I  stood  on  the  cross  palh 
leading  towards  the  Ilighi  to  the  right,  and  Jmmen- 
sce  to  the  lei't ;  and  making  up  my  mind  not  to  see 
the  Righi  on  this  occasion,  1  took  a  tender  farewell 
of  it,  and  went  through  the  Ilohle  (Jasse  to  the 
Lake  of  Zug.  along  a  charming  path,  past  the  water, 
to  Arth  ;  but  could  not  resist  frequently  glancing  at 
the  summit  of  the  Ilighi  Culm, to  see  if  it  was  be- 
coming clearer:  and  while  I  was  dining  at  Arth  it 
did  clear  up.  The  wind  was  very  favourable,  the 
clouds  lifted  on  every  side;  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  begin  the  ascent. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose,  however,  if  I  wished  to 
witness  the  sunset ;  so  I  went  along  at  a  steady 
mountain  pace,  and  in  the  course  of  two  hours  and 
three-quarters  I  reached  the  Culm,  and  the  well- 
known  house.  I  then  became  aware  that  there  were 
about  forty  men  standing'on  the  top,  uplifting  their 
hands  in  admiration,  and  making  signs  in  a  state  of 
the  greatest  excitement.  I  ran  up,  and  a  new  and 
wondrous  sight  it  was.  All  the  valleys  were  filled 
with  fogs  and  clouds,  and  above  them  the  lofty,  snowy 
crests  of  the  mountains  and  the  glaciers  and  black 
rocks  stood  out  bright  and  clear.  The  mists  swept 
onwards,  veiling  a  portion  of  the  scenery  ;  then  came 
forth  the  15erne.se  Alps,  the  Jungfrau,  the  M cinch, 
and  the  Fiusteraarhora  ;  then  Titlis,  and  the  Unter- 
walden  mountains.  At  last  the  whole  range  was 


8UXSET    FROM    THE    RIGHT.  27$ 

distinctly  visible ;  the  clouds  in  the  val.eys  now  also 
began  to  roll  away,  disclosing  the  lakes  of  Lucerne 
and  Zug,  and  towards  the  hour  of  sunset,  only  thin 
streaks  of  bright  vapour  still  floated  on  the  land- 
scape. Coining  from  the  Alp,  and  then  looking 
towards  the  Righi,  it  was  as  if  the  overture  and 
other  portions  were  repeated  at  the  end  of  an  opera. 
All  the  spots  whence  you  have  seen  such  sublime 
scenery,  the  Weugern  Alp,  the  AVetter  Homer, 
the  valley  of  Kngelberg,  here  meet  the  eye  once 
more  in  clo.se  vicinity,  and  you  can  take  leave  of 
them  all.  I  had  imagined  that  it  was  only  at  first, 
when  still  ignorant  of  the  glaciers,  that  so  great 
an  impression  was  made,  from  the  influence  of  sur- 
prise, hut  I  think  the  effect  at,  the  last  is  even  more 
strik'n  •}]-.\}}  ever. 

Schwytz,  August  3151. 

Yesterday  and  to-day  I  gratefully  recalled  the 
happy  auspices  under  which  I  first  made  acquaint- 
ance with  this  part  of  the  world.  The  remembrance 
of  your  profound  admiration  of  these  wonders,  ele- 
vating you  above  e very-day  life,  has  contributed  not 
a  little  to  awaken  and  to  quicken  my  own  perception 
of  them.  1  often  to-day  recurred  to  your  delight,  aud 
the  deep  impression  it  made  en  me  at  the  time.  60 
the  Righi  is  evidently  disposed  to  be  gracious  to  our 
family,  and  in  consequence  of  this  kindly  feeling 
towards  us,  conferred  on  me  to-day  a  sunrise  quite 
as  brilliant  and  splendid  as  when  you  were  here. 
The  waning  moon,  the  lively  Alpine  horn,  the  long- 
protracted  rosy  dawn  which  first  stole  over  the  cold. 


280  MENDELSSOHN'S  LKTTEKS 

shadowy.  snowy  mountains,  the  white  clouds  on  the 
Lake  of  Zug.  the  clear.  sharp  peaks  bending  towards 
each  other  in  all  directions,  the  light  which  gradually 
crept  on  the  heights,  the  restless,  shivering  people, 
wrapped  in  coverlets,  the  monks  from  Maria  zum 
Schnee,  nothing  was  wanting. 

]  could  not  tear  myself  away  from  this  spectacle, 
and  remained  on  the  summit  for  six  consecutive 
hours,  gazing  at  the  mountains.  I  thought  that 
when  next  I  saw  them  there  might  be  many  changes, 
so  1  wished  to  imprint  the  sight  indelibly  on  my 
memory.  People  came  and  went,  and  talked  of 
these  anxious,  troubled  times,  of  politics,  and  of  the 
grand  mountain  range  before  us. 

Thus  the  morning  passed  away,  and  at  last,  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock,  1  was  obliged  to  go;  indeed  it 
was  high  time,  as  I  wished  to  get  to  Einsiedel  the 
same  day,  by  Hackcn.  On  my  way,  however,  in  the 
steep  path  leading  to  Lowerz,  my  trusty  old  umbrella, 
which  also  served  me  as  a  mountain  staff,  broke  to 
pieces  ;  this  detained  me,  so  that  I  preferred  remain- 
ing here,  and  to-morrow  I  hope  to  be  quite  fresh  for 
a  start. 

Wallenstadt,  September   2nd. 

(Year  of  rains  and  storms.)  Motto  of  the  copper- 
smith— "  If  you  can't  sing  a  new  song,  then  begin 
the  old  one  afresh."  Here  am  I  again  in  the  midst 
of  fogs  and  clouds,  unable  to  go  either  backwards  or 
forwards,  and  if  fortune  specially  favours  us,  we  may 
have  a  slight  inundation  into  the  bargain.  "\Vhcu  I 
crossed  the  lake,  the  boatmen  prophesied  very  fine 


IXCKSSANT    RAIX.  251 

weather,  consequently  tho  raia  begar  half  an  hour 
later,  and  is  not  likely  soon  to  cease,  for  there  arc 
piles  of  heavy,  gloomy  clouds,  such  as  you  can  only 
see  on  the  mountains.  If  it  were  twice  as  bad  three 
days  hence,  I  should  uot  care,  but  it  would  be 
grievous  indeed  if  Switzerland  were  to  take  leave  of 
me  with  so  ill-omened  an  aspect. 

I  have  this  moment  returned  from  the  church, 
where  I  have  been  playing  the  organ  for  three  hours, 
far  into  the  twilight:  an  old  man,  a  cripple,  blew  the 
bellows  for  me,  and  except  him.  there  was  not  a 
single  soul  in  the  church.  The  only  stops  I  found 
available,  were  a  very  weak  croaking  flute,  and  a 
quavering  deep  pedal  diapason,  of  sixteen  feet.  I 
cor.trived  to  extemporize  with  these  materials,  and 
at  last  subsided  into  a  choral  melody  in  E  minor, 
without  being  able  to  remember  what  it  was.  1 
could  not  get  rid  of  it,  when  all  at  once  it  occurred 
to  me  that  it  was  a  Litany,  the  music  of  which  was 
in  my  head  because  the  words  were  in  my  heart,  so 
then  I  had  a  wide  field,  and  plenty  of  i'ood  for  ex- 
temporizing. At  length  the  consumptive  deep  bass 
resounded  quite  alone  in  E  minor,  thus  : — • 

_L__  -  __  ,_-__  =_= 


24 


282  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

and  then  came  in  its  turn  the  flute,  high  up  in  the 
treble,  with  the  choral  in  the  same  key,  and  so  the 
sounds  of  the  organ  gradually  died  away,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  stop,  from  the  church  being  so  dark. 

In  the  meantime  there  was  a  terrible  hurricane  of 
wind  and  rain  outside,  and  not  a  trace  of  the  grand 
lofty  rocky  precipices;  the  most  dreary  weather  !  and 
then  I  read  some  dreary  newspaper?,  and  everything 
wore  a  grey  hue.  Tell  me,  Fanny,  do  you  know 
Auber's  "  Parisienne  1"  I  consider  it  the  very  worst 
thing  he  has  ever  produced,  perhaps  because  the 
subject  was  really  sublime,  and  for  other  reasons 
also.  Auber  alone  could  have  been  guilty  of  com- 
posing for  a  great  nation,  in  the  most  violent  state 
of  excitement,  a  cold,  insignificant  piece,  quite 
commonplace,  and  trivial.  The  refrain  revolts 
me  every  time  I  think  of  it, — it  is  as  if  children 
were  playing  with  a  drum,  and  singing  to  it — only 
more  objectionable.  The  words  also  are  worthless  ; 
little  antitheses  and  points  are  quite  out  of  place 
here.  Then  the  emptiness  of  the  music !  a  march 
for  acrobats,  and  at  the  end  a  mere  miserable  imita- 
tion of  the  "  Marseillaise."  Such  music  is  not  what 
this  epoch  demands.  Woe  to  us  if  it  be  indeed 
what  suits  this  epoch, — if  a  mere  copy  of  the  Mar- 
seillaise Hymn  be  all  that  is  required.  What  in  the 
latter  is  full  of  fire,  and  spirit,  and  impetus,  is  in 
the  former  ostentatious,  cold,  calculated,  and  artifi- 
cial. The  "  Marseillaise "  is  as  superior  to  the 
"  Farisieuue "  as  everything  produced  by  genuine 
enthusiasm  must  be,  to  what  is  made  for  a  purpose, 


AUBER'S  "  PAKISIEXXE."  283 

»ven  if  it  bo  with  a  view  to  promote  enthusiasm  :  it 
will  never  reach  the  heart,  because  it  does  not  come 
from  the  heart. 

By  the  way,  I  never  saw  such  a  striking  identity 
between  a  poet  and  a  musician,  as  between  Auber 
and  Clauren.  Auber  faithfully  renders  note  fcr 
note,  what  the  other  writes  word  for  word — brag- 
gadocio, degrading  sensuality,  pedantry,  epicurism, 
and  parodies  of  foreign  nationality.  13 tit  why  should 
Clauren  be  oH'a.-ed  from  the  literature  of  the  day? 
Is  it  prejudicial  to  any  one  that  he  should  remain 
where  he  is?  and  do  you  rend  what  is  really  good 
with  less  interest  ?  Any  young  poet  must  indeed  be 
degenerate,  if  he  dues  not  cordially  hate  and  despise 
such  trash  ;  but  it  is  only  too  true  that  the  people 
like  him  ;  so  it  is  all  very  well,  it  is  only  the  people's 
own  loss.  "\Vritc  me  your  opinion  of  the  "Parisi- 
enne.''  I  sometimes  sing  it  to  myself  for  fun,  as  I 
go  along;  it  makes  a  man  walk  like  a  chorister  in  a 
procession. 

Sargans,  September  ^rd,  noon. 

Wretched  weather  !  it  has  rained  all  night,  and 
all  the  morning  too,  and  the  cold  as  severe  as  in 
winter;  deep  snow  is  lying  on  the  adjacent  hills. 
There  has  been  again  a  tremendous  inundation  in 
Appenzell,  which  has  done  the  greatest  damage,  and 
destroyed  all  the  roads.  At  the  Lake  of  Zurich, 
there  are  numbers  of  pilgrimages,  and  processions, 
on  account  of  the  weather.  I  was  obliged  to  drive 
here  this  morning,  as  all  the  footpaths  were  covered 
with  mud  and  water.  I  shall  remain  till  to-morrow, 


284  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

when  the  diligence  passes  through  at  an  early  hour, 
and  I  intend  to  go  with  it  up  the  valley  of  the  Rhine, 
as  far  as  Altstettcn. 

To-morrow  I  shall  probably  have  reached,  or 
crossed,  the  boundaries  of  Switzerland,  for  my  pleas- 
ure excursion  is  now  over.  Autumn  is  arrived,  and 
I  have  no  right  to  complain  if  I  pass  a  few  tiresome 
days,  after  so  many  enchanting  ones,  that  I  can 
never  forget.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  I  almost  like 
it;  there  is  always  enough  to  be  done,  even  in  Sar- 
gans,  (  a  wretched  hole.)  and  in  a  regular  deluge, 
like  that  of  to-day — for  happily  an  organ  is  always 
to  be  found  in  this  country ;  they  are  certainly 
small,  and  the  lower  octave,  both  in  the  key-board 
and  the  pedal,  imperfect,  or  as  I  call  it,  crippled; 
but  still  they  are  organs, and  that  is  enough  for  me. 

I  have  been  playing  all  this  morning,  and  really 
begun  to  practise,  for  it  is  a  shame  that  I  cannot  play 
Sebastian  Bach's  principal  works.  I  intend,  if  I 
can  manage  it,  to  practise  for  an  hour  every  day  in 
Munich,  as  after  a  couple  of  hours'  work  to-day,  I 
certainly  made  considerable  progress  with  my  feet 
(t/ota  beiie,  sitting).  Kitz  once  told  me  that 
Schneider,  in  Dresden,  played  him  the  D  major 
fugue,  in  the  "  wohl-temperirten  Clavier,"  on  the 
organ,  supplying  the  bass  with  the  pedal. 


This  had  hitherto  appeared  to  me  so  fabulous,  that  1 
could  never  properly  comprehend  it,     It  recurred  to 


ORGAX-PLAYINO.  285 

mo  this  morning  when  I  was  playing  the  organ,  so  I 
instantly  attempted  it,  and  I  at  least  see  that  it  is 
far  froMi  being  impossible,  and  that  I  shall  accom- 
plish it.  The  subject  went  pretty  well,  so  I  prac- 
tised passages  from  the  I)  major  fugue,  for  the 
(  rg  in.  from  the  F  major  toccata,  and  the  G  minor 
fugne.  all  of  which.  I  knew  by  heart.  If  I  find  a 
lol'-rablo  organ  in  Munich,  and  not  an  imperfect 
one,  I  will  certainly  conquer  these,  and  feel  childish 
doiight  at  the  idea  of  playing-  such  pieces  on  the 
organ.  The  F  major  toccata,  with  the  modulation 
at  the  close,  sounded  as;  if  the  church  were  about 
to  tumble  down  ;  what  a  giant  that  Cantor  was  ! 

Besides  organ-playing,  I  have  a  good  many 
sketches  to  finish,  in  my  new  drawing  book,  (one 
was  entirely  iiiled  in  Engelberg)  and  then  I  must 
eat  like  six  hundred  wrestlers.  After  dinner  I 
practise  the  organ  again,  and  thus  a  rainy  day 
passes  at  Sargans.  It  seems  prettily  situated,  with 
a  castle  on  the  hill,  but  I  cannot  go  a  step  beyond 
the  door. 

K>:e)iin<j. — Yesterday  at  this  time,  I  still  pro- 
jected a  pedestrian  tour,  and  wished  at  all  events  to 
go  through  the  whole  of  the  Appenzell.  It  was  a 
strange  feeling  when  I  learned  that  all  mountain 
excursions  were  probably  at  an  end  for  this  year: 
the  heights  are  covered  with  deep  snow,  for  just  a? 
it  has  rained  here,  in  the  valley,  for  thirty-six  hours, 
it  has  snowed  incessantly  on  the  hills  above.  The 
flocks  have  been  obliged  to  come  down  into  the 
valley  from  the  Alps,  where  they  ought  to  have  re- 


286  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

mained  for  a  whole  month  yet,  so  that  all  idea  of 
any  footpaths  is  out  of  the  question.  Yesterday  I 
was  still  on  the  hills,  but  now  they  will  be  inaccessi- 
ble for  six  months  to  come.  My  pedestrian  excur- 
sions are  over  ;  wondrously  beautiful  they  were,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  them. 

I  mean  to  work  hard  at  music,  and  high  time 
that  I  should.  I  played  on  the  organ  till  twilight, 
and  was  trampling  energetically  on  the  pedal,  when 
we  suddenly  became  aware  that  the  deep  C  sharp 
in  the  great  diapason,  went  buzzing  softly  on  with- 
out ceasing ;  all  our  pressing,  and  shaking,  and 
thumping  on  the  keys,  was  of  no  avail,  so  we  were 
obliged  to  climb  into  the  organ  among  the  big  pipes. 
The  C  sharp  continued  gently  humming. — the  I'.^ilt 
lay  in  the  bellows  ;  the  organist  was  in  the  greatest 
perplexity,  because  to-morrow  is  a  fete  day  ;  at  last 
I  stuffed  my  handkerchief  into  the  pipe,  and  there 
was  no  more  buzzing,  but  no  more  C  sharp  either. 
I  played  this  passage  incessantly,  all  the  same  : — 


and  it  did  very  well. 

I  am  now  going  to  finish  my  sketch  of  the  Glacier 
of  the  Rhone,  and  then  the  day  will  be  at  my  own 
disposal  ;  which  means  that  I  am  going  to  sleep. 
I  will  write  to  you  on  the  next  page  to-morrow  even- 
ing wherever  I  am,  for  to-day  I  have  no  idea  when} 
I  shall  be.  Good  night!  Eight  is  striking  in  P 
minor,  and  it  is  raining  and  blowing  in  F  sharp 


CONTINUED    STORMS.  287 

minor  or  G  sharp  minor ;  in  short,  in  every  possible 
sharp  key. 


~G  ~r  z>  r  si s>  ~  i 

•    ~~   "~r  "          o  ~r  &  r~g~ g  ~r.     ^11 

St.  Gall,  the  4th. 

Motto — ••  Vous  pensez  que  je  suis  1'Abbe  dc  St. 
Gall"  (Citoyen).*  I  do  feel  so  comfortable  here, 
after  braving  such  storms  and  tempests.  During 
the  four  hours  when  I  was  crossing-  the  mountains 
from  Altstetten  to  this  place,  I  was  engaged  in  a 
regular  battle  with  the  elements;  when  1  tell  you 
that  I  never  experienced  anything  like  the  storm, 
nor  even  imagined  anything  approaching  to  it,  this 
does  not  say  much  ;  bat  the  oldest  people  in  the 
Canton  declare  the  same  :  a  large  manufactory  has 
been  demolished,  and  several  persons  killed.  To- 
morrow, in  my  last  letter  from  Switzerland,  I  will 
tell  you  of  my  being  again  obliged  to  travel  on 
foot,  and  arriving  here,  after  crossing  by  Appenzell, 
which  looked  like  Egypt  after  the  seven  plagues. 
The  bell  is  now  ringing  for  dinner,  and  I  mean  to 
feast  like  an  abbot. 

Lindau,  September  £th. 

Opposite  me  lies  Switzerland,  with  her  dark  blue 
mountains,  pedestrian  journeys,  storms,  and  glorious 
heights  and  valleys.  Here  ends  the  greatest  part  of 
my  journey,  and  my  journal  also. 

At  noon  to-day,  I  crossed  the  wild  grey  Rhine  in 

*  Mondolssohn  jokingly  alludes  to  a  poem  of  Bilrger, — Dor  Ab| 
vori  St.  G  alien. 


288  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

a  ferry-boat,  above  Rheineck,  and  now  here  I  am 
already  in  Uavaria.  J  have  of  course  entirely  given 
up  my  projected  excursion  on  foot,  through  the 
Bavarian  mountains  ;  Cor  it  would  be  folly  to  attempt 
anything1  of  the  kind  this  year.  For  the  last  four 
days  it  has  rained  more  or  less  with  incessant  vehe- 
mence ;  it  seemed  as  if  Providence  were  wroth.  I 
passed  to-day  through  extensive  orchards,  which 
were  not  under  water,  but  fairly  submerged  by  mud 
and  clay  ;  everything  looks  deplorable  and  depress- 
ing; you  must  therefore  forgive  the  doleful  style 
of  this  last  sheet.  I  never  in  any  landscape  saw  a 
more  dreary  sight  than  the  sward  of  the  green  hills, 
covered  with  deep  snow;  while  below,  the  fruit-trees, 
with  their  ripe  fruit,  were  standing  reflected  in  the 
water.  The  scanty  covering  of  muddy  snow,  which 
lay  on  the  fir-woods  and  meadows,  looked  the  per- 
sonification of  all  that  was  dismal.  A  Sargans 
burgher  told  me  that  in  1811  this  little  town  had 
been  entirely  burnt  down,  and  recently  with  diffi- 
culty rebuilt ;  that  they  depend  chiefly  on  the  pro- 
duce of  their  vineyards,  which  have  been  this  year 
destroyed  by  hail-storms,  and  the  Alps  also  were 
now  mi  longer  available  ;  this  gives  rise  to  serious 
reflections,  and  to  anxious  thoughts  with  regard  to 
this  year. 

Jt  is  singular  enough  that  if  I  am  obliged  to  go 
on  foot  in  such  weather,  and  fairly  exposed  to  it,  I 
am  not  iu  the  least  annoyed:  on  the  contrary,  I 
rather  rejoice  in  setting  it  at  defiance.  AY  hen  I 
arrived  by  the  diligence  yesterday  at  Altstetteii,  in 


BRAT1.NG    A    STORM.  289 

freezing  cold,  like  a  day  in  December,  I  found  that 
there  was  no  carriage  road  to  Tourgcn,  to  which 
place  I  had  unluckily  sent  on  my  cloak  and  knapsack 
on  the  last  fine  day.  I  was  obliged  to  have  them 
the  same  evening,  for  the  cold  was  intense,  so  I  did 
not  hesitate  long,  but  set  off  once  more  for  the  last 
time  to  cross  the  mountains,  and  arrived  in  the 
Canton  of  Appenzell. 

The  state  of  the  woods,  and  hills,  and  meadows, 
and  little  bridges,  bailies  all  description;  being  Sun- 
day, and  divine  service  going  on,  I  failed  in  pro- 
curing a  guide;  not  a  living  soul  met  me  the  whole 
way.  for  all  the  people  had  crept  into  their  houses 
so  I  toiled  on  quite  alone  towards  Tourgcn.  To 
pass  through  a  woud  in  such  weather,  and  along 
such  paths,  inspires  a  wonderful  sense  of  indepen- 
dence. Moreover  I  am  now  quite  perfect  in  the 
Swiss  judfln  and  crowing,  so  I  shouted  lustily,  and 
jatlelled  several  airs  at  the  pitch  of  my  voice,  and 
arrived  in  Tourgen  in  capital  spirits.  The  people 
in  the  inn  there  were  rude  and  saucy,  so  I  politely 
said.  "You  be  hanged  !  1  shall  go  on;"  and  taking 
out  my  map,  1  found  that  St.  Gall  was  the  nearest 
convenient  place,  and  in  fact  the  only  practicable 
route.  ]  could  not  succeed  in  persuading  any  one 
t;»  go  with  me  in  such  horrible  weatlur.  so  I  resolved 
to  carry  my  own  things,  aliasing  all  Swiss  cordiality. 

Shortly  afterwards,  however,  came  the  reverse  of 

the  medal,  which  not  unl'requently  occurs.    I  went  to 

the  peasant  who  had  brought  my  luggage  here,  and 

found  him  in  his  pretty  newly-built  wooden  house, 

2fi 


290  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTKRH. 

and  I  had  thus  an  opportunity  of  seeing  a  veritable 
and  genuine  Swiss  interior,  just  as  \vc  imagine  it  to 
be.  lie  and  his  whole  family  were  sitting  round  a 
table,  the  house  clean  and  warm,  and  the  stove 
burning.  The  old  man  rose  and  gave  me  his  hand, 
and  insisted  on  my  taking  a  seat;  he  then  sent 
through  the  whole  place  to  try  to  get  me  a  carriage, 
or  a  man  to  carry  my  things,  but  as  no  one  would 
either  drive  or  walk,  he  at  last  sent  his  own  son  with 
me.  He  only  asked  two  Batzen  for  carrying  my 
knapsack  for  two  hours.  A  very  pretty  fair  daugh- 
ter was  sitting  at  the  table  sewing,  the  mother  read- 
ing a  thick  book,  and  the  old  man  himself  studying 
the  newspapers;  it  was  a  charming  picture. 

AYhen  at  last  I  set  off.  the  weather  seemed  to  say, 
"If  you  defy  me  I  can  defy  you  also,"  for  the  storm 
broke  loose  with  redoubled  violence,  and  an  invisible 
hand  appeared  to  seize  my  umbrella  at  intervals, 
shaking  it  and  crumpling  it  together,  and  my  fingora 
were  so  benumbed  that  I  could  scarcely  hold  it  fast; 
the  paths  were  so  desperately  slippery  that,  my  guide 
fell  sprawling  full  length  before  me  in  the  mud;  but 
what  cared  we  ?  AW  jodellcd  and  reviled  the  weather 
to  our  hearts'  content,  and  at  last  we  passed  the 
Nunnery,  which  we  greeted  by  a  serenade,  and  soon 
after  reached  St.  (Jail. 

Our  journey  was  happily  over,  and  yesterday  I 
drove  here,  and  at  night  met  with  a  wonderful 
organ,  on  which  I  could  play  "SchmUckc  dich,  0 
Hebe  Seek:  !"  to  my  heart's  content. 

To-day  I  proceed   to  Memmingen,  to-morrow   to 


orrrpATioN   AT  Mrxirn.  291 

Augsburg;  the  day  aft  or,  God  willing,  to  Munich; 
and  thus.  I  may  now  say.  I  h<'i>:v  le-n  in  Switzerland. 
Perhaps  I  have  rather  bored  you  by  all  the  trivial 
occurrences  1  have  detailed.  These  are  gloomy 
time?,  but  we  need  not  be  so;  and  when  I  sent  you 
my  journal,  it  was  chiefly  to  show  you  that  I  thought 
of  you  whenever  I  was  pleased  and  happy,  and  was 
with  you  in  spirit.  The  shabby,  dripping  pedestrian 
bids  you  farewell,  and  a  town  gentleman,  with 
visiting-cards,  fine  linen,  and  a  black  coat,  will  write 
10  you  next  time.  Farewell.  FELIX. 


BURGIIER  LETTER  FROM  Mrxirn. 

Munich,  O«Cober  6th,  1831. 

It  is  a  delightful  feeling  to  wake  ;n  the  morning 
and  to  know  that  you  are  to  score  a  c'raud  allegro 
with  all  sorts  of  instruments,  and  various  oboes  ant! 
trumpets,  while  bright  weather  holds  out  the  hope 
of  a  cheering  long  walk  in  the  afternoon. 

I  have  enjoyed  these  pleasures  for  a  whole  week 
past,  so  the  favourable  impression  that  Munich 
made  on  me  during  my  first  visit,  is  now  very  much 
enhanced.  I  scarcely  know  any  place  where  I  feel 
so  comfortable  and  domesticated  as  here.  It  is 
indeed  very  delightful  to  be  surrounded  by  cheerful 
faces,  and  your  own  to  be  so  also,  and  to  knoweve^y 
man  you  meet  in  the  streets. 

I  am  now  preparing  for  my  concert,  so  my  hands 
(ire  pretty  full ;  ray  acquaintances  every  iustap* 


292  ME.VDELSSOHX'S    LETTERS. 

interrupting  me  in  my  work,  the  lovt.ly  wcathei 
tempting-  me  to  go  out,  and  the  copyists,  in  turn, 
forcing  me  to  stay  at  home ;  all  this  constitutes  the 
most  agreeable  and  exciting  life.  I  was  obliged  to 
put  off  my  concert,  on  account  of  the  October  fes- 
tival, which  begins  next  Sunday,  and  lasts  all  the 
week.  Every  evening  there  is  to  be  a  performance 
at  the  theatre,  and  a  ball,  so  all  idea  of  an  orchestra 
or  a  concert-room  is  out  of  the  question.  On  Mon- 
day evening,  however,  the  17th,  at  half-past  six, 
think  of  me, — for  then  we  dash  off  with  thirty  vio- 
lins, and  two  sets  of  wind  instruments. 

The  first  part  begins  with  the  symphony  in  C 
minor,  the  second  with  the  "Midsummer  Night's 
Dream."  The  first  part  closes  with  my  new  concerto 
in  (I  minor,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  I  have  un 
willingly  agreed  to  extemporize.  Believe  me,  I  do 
so  very  reluctantly,  but  the  people  insist  upon  it. 
Barmaim  has  decided  on  playing  again;  Breiting, 
Mile.  Vial,  Loehle,  Bayer,  and  Pellegrini  are  the 
singers  who  are  to  execute  a  piece  together.  The 
locality  is  the  large  Odeon  Hall,  and  the  performance 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  in  Munich.  The  magis- 
trates invite  the  orchestra,  and  the  burgomasters  the 
singers.  Every  morning  I  am  engaged  in  writing, 
correcting,  and  scoring  till  one  o'clock,  when  I  go 
to  Sclieidel's  coU'ee-lumse  in  the  Kaufinger  Gasse, 
where  I  know  each  face  by  heart,  and  find  the  same 
people  every  day  in  the  same  position ;  two  playing 
chess,  three  looking  on,  five  reading  the  newspapers, 
six  eating  their  dinner,  and  I  am  the  seventh.  After 


OCCUPATION   AT   MUNICH.  293 

dinner  Barmann  usually  comes  to  fetch  me.  and  we 
make  arrangements  about  the  concert,  or  after  a 
walk  we  have  cheese  and  beer,  and  then  I  return 
home  and  set  to  work  again. 

This  time  I  have  declined  all  invitations  for  the 
evening;  but  there  are  so  many  agreeable  houses,  to 
which  I  can  go  uninvited,  that  a  light  is  seldom  to 
be  seen  in  my  room  on  the  parterre  till  after  eight 
o'clock.  You  must  know  that  I  lodge  on  a  lnvcl 
with  the  street,  in  a  room  which  was  once  a  shop,  so 
that  if  I  unbar  the  shutters  of  my  gla.ss  door,  one 
step  brings  me  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  any 
one  passing  along,  can  put  his  head  in  at  the  window, 
and  say  good  morning.  Next  to  me  a  Greek  lodges, 
who  is  learning  the  piano,  and  he  is  truly  odious  ; 
but  to  make  up  for  that,  my  landlord's  daughter, 
who  wears  a  round  silver  cap  and  is  very  slender, 
looks  all  the  prettier. 

I  have  music  in  my  rooms  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  three  times  every  week  :  IJilrmann,  I'rcit- 
ing.  Staudacher,  young  Poissl,  and  others,  come 
regularly,  and  we  have  a  musical  picnic.  In  this  way 
I  become  acquainted  with  operas,  which,  most  un- 
pardonably,  I  have  not  yet  either  heard  or  seen :  such 
as  Lodoiska.  Faniska.  Medea  ;  also  the  Preciosu,  Abu 
Hassan,  etc.  The  theatre  lends  us  the  scores. 

Last  Wednesday  we  had  capital  fun;  several 
wagers  had  been  lost,  and  it  was  agreed  that  we 
should  en;:oy  the  fruits  of  them  all  together;  and 
after  various  suggestions,  we  at  last  decided  on 
having  a  musical  soiree  in  my  room,  and  to  invite 
25* 


294  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

all  the  dignitaries;  so  a  list  was  made  out  of  about 
thirty  persons;  several  also  came  uninvited,  who 
were  presented  to  us  by  mutual  friends.  There  was 
a  sad  want  of  space;  at  first  we  proposed  placing 
several  people  on  my  bed.  but  it  was  surprising  the 
number  of  patient  sheep  who  managed  to  cram  into 
my  small  room.  The  whole  affair  was  most  lively 

raid  successful.  E was  present,  as  dulcet  as 

ever,  languishing  in  all  the  glory  of  poetical  enthu- 
siasm, and  grey  stockings  ;  in  short,  tiresome  beyond 
all  description. 

First  1  played  my  old  quartett  in  B  minor;  then 
Breiting  sang  "Adelaide;"  Jlerr  rf played  varia- 
tions on  the  violin  (doing  himself  no  credit);  Bar- 
maim  performed  Beethoven's  first  quartett  (in  F 
major),  which  lie  had  arranged  for  t\vo  clarionets, 
coruo  di  bassctto,  and  bassoon  ;  an  air  from  "  Eury- 
anthe"  followed,  which  was  furiously  encored,  and 
as  a  finale  I  extemporized — tried  hard  to  get  off — 
but  they  made  such  a  tremendous  uproar  that  nolens 
I  was  forced  to  comply,  though  I  had  nothing  in 
my  head,  but  wine-glasses,  benches,  cold  roast  meat, 
and  ham. 

The  Cornelius  ladies  were  next-door  with  my  land- 
lord and  his  family,  to  listen  to  me;  the  Schauroths 
were  making  a  visit  on  the  first  story  for  the  same 
purpose,  and  even  in  the  hall,  and  in  the  street, 
people  were  standing;  in  addition  to  all  this,  the 
heat  of  the  crowded  room,  the  deafening  noise, 
the  gay  audience  ;  and  when  at  last  the  time  for 
eating  and  drinking  arrived,  the  uproar  was  at  its 


SUMMONED    TO    COl'RT.  295 

height ;  we  fraternized  glass  in  hand,  and  gave 
toasts ;  the  more  formal  guests  -\vith  their  grave 
faces,  sat  in  the  midst  of  the  jovial  throng,  appa- 
rently quite  contented,  and  we  did  not  separate  till 
half-past  one  in  the  morning. 

The  following  evening  formed  a  striking  contrast. 
I  was  summoned  to  play  before  the  Queen,  and  the 
Court ;  there  all  was  proper  and  polite,  and  polished, 
and  every  time  you  moved  your  elbow,  you  pushed 
against  an  Excellency;  the  most  smooth  and  com- 
plimentary phr.tses  circulated  in  the  room,  and  I,  the 
rhtar<<:r.  stood  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  my  citizen 
heart,  and  my  aching  he-ad]  I  managed  however  to 
get  (•!!  pretty  well,  and  at  the  end.  1  was  commanded 
to  extemporize  on  Royal  themes,  which  I  did.  and 
was  mightily  commended;  what  pleased  me  most 
was.  that  when  1  had  finished  my  extempore  playing, 
'he  Queen  said  to  me.  that  it  was  strange  the  power 
I  possessed  of  carrying  away  my  audience,  for  that 
during  such  music,  no  one  could  think  of  anything 
else  ;  on  which  I  begged  to  apologize  for  carrying 
away  Her  Majesty,  etc. 

Tiiis.  you  see,  is  the  mode  in  which  I  pass  my  time 
in  Munich.  I  forgot,  however,  to  say.  that  every 
day  at  twelve  o'clock.  I  give  little  Mademoiselle 

L •  an  hour's  instruction  in  double  counterpoint, 

and  four- part  composition,  etc..  which  makes  me 
realize  more  than  ever  the  stupidity  and  confusion 
of  most  masters  and  books  on  this  subject;  for 
nothing  can  lie  more  clear  than  the  whole  thing 
when  properly  explained. 


296  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

She  is  one  of  the  sweetest  creatures  I  ever  saw, 
Imagine  a  small,  delicate-looking,  pale  girl,  with 
noble  but  not  pretty  features,  so  singular  and  inter- 
esting, that  it  is  difficult  to  turn  your  eyes  from  her ; 
while  all  her  gestures  and  every  word  are  full  of 
genius.  She  has  the  gift  of  composing  songs,  and 
singing  them  in  a  way  I  never  heard  before,  causing 
me  the  most  unalloyed  musical  delight  I  ever  ex- 
perienced. When  she  is  seated  at  the  piano,  and 
begins  one  of  the  songs,  the  sounds  are  quite  unique  ; 
the  music  floats  strangely  to  and  fro,  and  every  note 
expresses  the  most  profound  and  refined  feeling. 
When  she  sings  the  first  note  in  her  tender  tones, 
every  one  present  subsides  into  a  quiet  and  thought- 
ful mood,  and  each,  in  his  own  way,  is  deeply 
affected. 

If  you  could  but  hear  her  voice  !  so  innocent,  so 
unconsciously  lovely,  emanating  from  her  inmost 
soul,  and  yet  so  tranquil  !  Last  year  the  genius 
was  all  there;  she  had  written  no  song  that  did  not 

contain  some  bright  flash  of  talent,  and  then  M 

and  I  sounded  forth  her  praises  to  the  musical 
world  ;  still  no  one  seemed  to  place  much  faith  in 
us;  but  since  that  time,  she  has  made  the  most 
remarkable  progress.  Those  who  are  not  affected 
by  her  present  singing,  can  have  no  feeling  at  all ; 
but  unluckily  it  is  now  the  fashion  to  nog  the  young 
girl  to  sing  her  songs,  and  then  the  lights  arc  re- 
moved from  the  piano,  in  order  that  the  society  may 
enjoy  the  plaintive  strains. 

This  forms  an  unpleasant  contrast,  and  repeatedly 


REMARKABLE    GENIUS.  297 

when  I  was  to  have  played  something  after  her,  1 
was  quite  unable,  and  declined  doing  so.  It  is 
probable  that  she  may  one  day  be  spoiled  by  all  this 
praise,  because  she  has  no  one  to  comprehend  or  to 
guide  her ;  and,  strangely  enough,  she  is  as  yet  en- 
tirely devoid  of  all  musical  cultivation  ;  she  knows 
very  little,  and  can  scarcely  distinguish  good  music 
from  bad;  in  fact,  except  her  own  pieces,  she  thinks 
all  else  that  she  hears  wonderfully  fine.  If  she  were 
at  length  to  become  satisfied  as  it  were  with  herself, 
it  would  be  all  over  with  her.  I  have,  for  my  part, 
.  doue  what  I  could,  and  implored  her  parents  and 
herself  in  the  most  urgent  manner,  to  avoid  society, 
and  not  to  allow  such  divine  genius  to  be  wasted. 
Heaven  grant  that  I  may  be  successful!  1  may, 
perhaps,  dear  sisters,  soon  send  you  some  of  her 
songs  that  she  has  copied  out  for  me,  in  token  of  her 
gratitude  for  my  teaching  her  what  she  already 
knows  from  nature  :  and  because  I  have  really  led 
her  to  good  and  solid  music. 

I  also  play  on  the  organ  every  day  for  an  hour, 
but  unfortunately  I  cannot  practise  properly,  as  the 
pedal  is  short  of  iive  upper  notes,  so  that  I  cannot 
play  any  of  Sebastian  Bach's  passages  on  it;  but 
the  stops  are  wonderfully  beautiful,  by  the  aid  of 
which  you  can  vary  chorals;  so  I  dwell  with  delight 
on  the  celestial,  liquid  tone  of  the  instrument. 
Moreover,  Fanny.  I  have  here  discovered  the  par- 
ticular stops  which  ought  to  be  used  in  Sebastian 
Bach's  "  Selimuckc  dich,  0  liebe  Seele."  They  seem 
actually  made  for  this  melody,  and  sound  so  touching, 


298  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

that  a  tremor  invariably  seizes  me,  when  I  begin  to 
play  it.  For  the  flowing  parts  I  have  a  flute  stop  of 
eight  feet,  and  also  a  very  soft  one  of  four  feet,  which 
continually  floats  above  the  Choral.  You  have 
heard  this  effect  in  Berlin;  but  there  is  a  keyboard 
for  the  Choral  with  nothing  but  reed  stops,  so  I  em- 
ploy a  mellow  oboe  and  a  soft  clarion  (four  feet)  and 
a  viola ;  these  give  the  Choral  in  subdued  and  touch- 
ing tones,  like  distant  human  voices,  singing  from 
the  depths  of  the  heart. 

Sunday,  Monday,  and  Tuesday,  by  the  time  you 
will  have  received  this  letter,  I  shall  boon  the  "The- 
resien  AViesc,"  with  eighty  thousand  other  people  ;  so 
think  of  me  there,  and  farewell.  FELIX. 


Munich,  October  l8th,  1831. 

Dear  Father, 

Pray  forgive  me  for  not  having  written  to  you  for 
BO  long.  The  last  few  days  previous  to  my  concert, 
were  passed  in  such  bustle  and  confusion,  that  I 
really  had  not  a  moment's  leisure  ;  besides  1  pre- 
ferred writing  to  you  after  my  concert  was  over, 
that  I  might  tell  you  all  about  it,  hence  the  long  in- 
terval between  this  and  my  former  letter. 

I  write  to  you  in  particular  to-day,  because  it  is 
so  long  since  1  have  had  a  single  line  from  you  ;  I 
do  beg  you  will  soon  write  to  me.  if  only  to  say  that 
you  are  well,  and  to  send  inc  your  kind  wishes. 
You  know  this  always  makes  me  glad  and  happy ; 


CONCERT    AT    MUNICH.  299 

therefore  excuse  my  addressing  this  letter,  with  all 
the  little  details  of  my  concert,  to  you.  My  mother, 
and  sisters,  were  desirous  to  hear  them,  but  I  wad 
anxious  to  say  how  eagerly  I  hope  for  a  few  lines 
from  you.  Pray  let  me  have  them.  It  is  a  long 
time  since  you  wrote  to  me  ! 

My  concert  took  place  yesterday,  and  was  much 
more  brilliant  and  successful  than  I  expected.  The 
affair  went  oil  well,  and  with  much  spirit.  The 
orchestra  played  admirably,  and  the  receipts  for 
the  beuciil  of  the  poor  will  be  large.  A  few  days 
after  my  former  letter,  I  attended  a  general  rehear- 
sal, where  the  whole  band  were  assembled,  and  in 
addition  to  the  official  invitation  the  orchestra  had 
received,  I  was  obliged  to  invite  them  verbally  in  a 
polite  speech,  in  the  theatre.  This, to  me,  was  the 
most  trying  part  of  the  whole  concert;  still  1  did 
in  it  object  to  it,  for  I  really  wished  to  know  the 
sensations  of  a  man  who  gives  a  concert,  and  this 
ceremony  forms  part  of  it.  1  stationed  myself  there- 
fore at  the  prompter's  box,  and  addressed  the  per- 
formers very  courteously,  who  took  off  their  hats, 
and  when  my  speech  was  finished,  there  was  a 
general  murmur  of  assent.  On  the  following  day 
there  were  upwards  of  seventy  signatures  to  the 
circular.  Immediately  afterwards,  I  had  the  plea- 
sure of  finding  that  the  chorus  singers  had  ssnt 
one  of  their  leaders  to  me,  to  ask  if  I  had  not  com- 
posed some  chorus  that  I  should  like  to  be  sung,  in 
which  case,  t!n-y  would  all  be  happy  to  sing  it 
gratis.  Although  I  had  decided  not  to  give  more 


300  MENDELSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 

than  three  pieces  of  my  composition,  still  the  offer 
\vas  very  gratifying,  and  the  hearty  sympathy  es- 
pecially delighted  me,  for  even  the  regimental  musi- 
cians whom  I  had  to  engage  for  ihe  English  horns 
and  trumpets,  positively  refused  to  accept  a  single 
kreuzer,  and  we  had  above  eighty  performers  in  the 
orchestra. 

Then  came  all  the  tiresome  minor  arrangements 
about  advertisements,  tickets,  preliminary  rehearsals, 
etc.,  and  in  addition  to  all  this,  it  was  the  week  of 
the  October  festival.  In  Munich  the  days  and  hours 
always  glide  past  so  very  rapidly,  that  when  they  are 
gone,  it  really  seems  as  if  they  had  never  been,  and 
this  is  more  peculiarly  the  case  during  this  October 
festival.  Every  afternoon  about  three  o'clock  you 
repair  to  the  spacious,  green  "  Thcresien  Wiese," 
which  is  swarming  with  people,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  get  away  till  the  evening,  for  every  one  finds 
acquaintances  without  end,  and  something  to  talk 
about,  or  to  look  at;  a  fat  ox,  target-shooting,  a 
race,  or  pretty  girls  in  gold  and  silver  caps,  etc. 
Any  affair  you  are  engaged  in,  can  be  concluded 
there,  for  the  whole  town  is  congregated  on  the 
meadow,  and  not  till  the  mists  begin  to  rise,  does 
the  crowd  disperse,  and  return  towards  the  "Fruuen 
Thurme."  The  people  are  in  constant  motion,  run- 
ning about  in  all  directions,  while  the  snowy  moun- 
tains in  the  distance  look  clear  and  tranquil,  each 
day  giving  promise  of  a  bright  morrow,  and  fulfilling 
that  promise;  and,  what  after  all  is  the  chief  thing, 
none  but  careless  happy  faces  to  be  seen,  with  the 


OCTOBER    FESTIVAL    AT    MUNICH.  301 

occasional  exception  perhaps  of  a  few  Deputies, 
drinking  coffee  in  the  open  air,  and  discussing  the 
lamentable  condition  of  the  people, — while  the 
people  themselves  are  standing  round  them  looking 
us  happy  as  possible.  On  the  first  day  the  King 
distributes  the  prizes  himself,  taking  of!'  his  hat  to 
each  winner  of  a  prize,  and  giving  his  hand  to  the 
peasants,  or  laying  hold  of  their  arms  and  shaking 
them  ;  now  I  think  this  all  very  proper,  as  here  ex- 
ternally ut  least  society  appears  more  blended,  but 
whether  it  sinks  deep  into  the  heart,  we  can  discuss 
together  at  some  future  time.  I  adhere  to  my  first 
'.pinion;  at  all  events  it  is  so  far  well,  that  the 
absurd  restraints  of  etiquette  should  not  be  too 
strictly  observed  outwardly,  and  so  it  is  always 
pome-thing  gained. 

My  first  rehearsal  took  place  early  on  Saturday. 
We  had  about  thirty-two  violins,  six  double-basses, 
and  double  sets  of  wind  instruments,  etc.:  but, 
Heaven  knows  why,  the  rehearsal  went  badly;  1 
was  forced  to  rehearse  my  symphony  in  C  minor 
alone  for  two  hours.  My  concerto  did  not  go  at  all 
satisfactorily.  We  had  only  time  to  play  over  the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  once,  and  even  then 
so  hurriedly,  that  I  wished  to  withdraw  it  from  the 
bills  :  but  Biirmaim  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  as- 
sured me  that  they  would  do  it  better  next  time.  I 
therefore  was  forced  to  wait  in  considerable  anxiety 
for  the  next  rehearsal :  in  the  meantime  there  was 
happily  a  great  ball  on  Sunday  evening,  which  was 
very  enjoyable,  so  I  recovered  my  spirits,  and  arrived 
2(5 


302  MEXDELPSOI7X'S    LETTERS. 

next  morning  at  the  general  rehearsal  in  high  good 
humour,  and  with  perfect  confidence.  I  started  off 
at  once  with  the  overture;  we  played  it  over  again 
and  again,  till  at  last  it  went  well,  and  we  did  the 
same  with  my  concerto,  so  that  the  whole-  rehearsal 
was  quite  satisfactory. 

On  my  way  to  the  concert  at  night,  when  I  heard 
the  rattling  of  the  carriages,  I  began  to  feel  real 
pleasure  in  the  whole  affair.  The  Court  arrived  at 
half-past  six.  I  took  up  my  little  English  baton,  and 
conducted  my  symphony.  The  orchestra  played 
magnificently,  and  with  a  degree  of  fire  and  en- 
thusiasm that  I  never  heard  equalled  under  my 
direction;  they  all  crashed  in  at  \\\v  forte,  and  the 
ifchf.rzo  was  most  light  and  delicate;  it  seemed  to 
please  the  audience  exceedingly,  and  the  Iving  was 
always  the  first  to  applaud.  Then  my  fat  friend. 
Breiting,  sang  the  air  in  A  flat  major  from  "  Eury- 
anthe,"  and  the  public  shouted  "  Da  capo  !  "  and 
were  in  good  humour,  and  showed  good  taste. 
Breiting  was  delighted,  so  he  sang  with  spirit,  and 
quite  beautifully.  Then  came  my  concerto;  1  was 
received  with  long  and  loud  applause;  the  orchestra 
accompanied  me  well,  and  the  composition  had  also 
its  merits,  and  gave  much  satisfaction  to  the  audi- 
ence; they  wished  to  recall  me.  in  order  to  give  me 
another  round  of  applause,  according  to  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  here,  but  I  was  modest,  and  would 
not  appear.  Between  the  parts  the  King  got  hold 
of  me,  and  praised  me  highly,  asking  all  sorts  of 
questions,  and  whether  I  was  related  to  the  Bartholdy 


CONCERT    AT    MUNICH.  303 

in  Rome,  to  whose  house  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
goiiip-,  because  it  was  the  cradle  of  modern  art, 
etc.* 

The  second  part  commenced  with  the  ''Midsum- 
mer Night's  Uream,"  which  went  admirably,  and 
excited  a  great  sensation:  then  I>;irmann  played, 
and  after  that  we  had  the  finale  in  A  major  from 
Lodoiska.  I  however  did  not  hear  either  of  these, 
as  I  was  resting  and  cooling  in  the  anteroom. 
AVhen  I  appeared  to  extemporize,  I  was  again  en- 
thusiastically received.  The  King-  had  given  me 
the  theme  of  '•  Xon  pid  andrai."  on  which  I  was  to 
iniproci*er.  My  former  opinion  is  now  fully  con- 
firmed, that  it  is  an  absurdity  to  extemporize  in 
public.  I  have  seldom  felt  so  like  a  fool  as  when  I 
took  my  place  at  the  piano,  to  present  to  the  public 
the  fruits  of  my  inspiration  ;  but  the  audience  were 
quite  contented,  and  there  was  no  end  of  their 
applause.  They  called  me  forward  again,  and  the 
Queen  said  all  that  was  courteous ;  but  I  was 
annoyed,  for  I  was  far  from  being  satisfied  with  my- 
self, and  I  am  resolved  never  again  to  extemporize 
in  public. — it  is  both  an  abuse  and  an  absurdity. 

So  this  is  an  account  of  my  concert  of  the  17th, 
which  is  now  among  the  things  of  the  past.  There 
were  eleven  hundred  people  present,  so  the  poor 
may  well  be  satisfied  :  but  enough  of  all  this.  Fare- 
well !  May  every  happiness  attend  you  all ! 

FELIX. 

*  Vide  the  letter  from  Koine  of  the  1st  of  February,  1S31. 


304  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Paris,  December  igth,  1831. 
Dear  Father, 

Receive  my  hearty  thanks  for  your  letter  of  the 
7th.  Though  I  do  not  quite  apprehend  your  mean  ing 
on  some  points,  and  also  may  differ  from  you,  still  I 
nave  no  doubc  that  this  will  come  all  right  when  we 
talk  things  over  together,  especially  if  you  permit 
me,  as  you  have  always  hitherto  done,  to  express 
my  opinion  in  a  straight-forward  manner.  I  allude 
chiefly  to  your  suggestion,  that  I  should  procure  a 
libretto  for  an  opera  from  some  French  poet,  and 
then  have  it  translated,  and  compose  the  music  for 
the  Munich  stage.* 

Above  all,  I  must  tell  you  how  sincerely  I  regret 
that  you  have  only  now  made  known  to  me  your 
views  on  this  subject.  I  went  to  Dlisseldorf,  as  you 
know,  expressly  to  consult  with  Immermann  on  the 
point.  I  found  him  ready,  and  willing;  he  accepted 
the  proposal,  promising  to  send  me  the  poem  by  the 
end  of  May  at  the  latest,  so  I  do  not  myself  see  how 
it  is  possible  for  me  now  to  draw  back  ;  indeed  I  do 
not  wish  it.  as  I  place  entire  confidence  in  him.  I 
do  not  in  the  least  understand  what  you  allude  1o 
in  your  last  letter,  about  Immermann,  and  his  in- 
capacity to  write  an  opera.  Although  1  by  no 
means  agree  with  you  in  this  opinion,  still  it  would 
have  been  mv  dutv  to  have  settled  nothing  without 


*  Felix  Mendelssohn,  during  his  stay  in  Munich,  received  a 
rommissiou  from  the  director  of  the  theatre,  to  wrile  an  opera  t'oi 
Munich. 


LIBRETTO    FOR    AN    OPERA.  305 

your  express  sanction,  and  I  could  \\a\e  arranged 
the  affair  by  letter  from  here,  I  believed  however 
that  I  was  acting  quite  to  your  satisfaction  when  I 
made  him  my  offer.  lu  addition  to  this,  some  new 
poems  that  he  read  to  me.  convinced  me  more  than 
ever  that  he  was  a  true  poet,  and  supposing  that  I 
had  an  equal  choice  in  merit.  I  would  always  decide 
rather  in  favour  of  a  German  than  a  French  libretto; 
and  lastly,  he  has  fixed  on  a  subject  which  has  been 
long'  in  my  thoughts,  and  which,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
my  mother  wished  to  see  made  into  an  opera, — I 
mean  tehakspeare's  "Tempest;".  I  was  therefore 
particularly  pleased  with  this,  so  I  shall  doubly  re- 
gret if  you  do  not  approve  of  what  I  have  done.  In 
any  event,  however,  I  entreat  that  you  will  neither 
be  displeased  with  me.  nor  distrustful  with  regard  to 
the  work,  Dor  cease  to  take  any  interest  in  it. 

From  what  I  know  of  Immermann.  I  feel  assured 
I  may  expect  a  first-rate  libretto.  "What  I  alluded 
to  about  his  solitary  life,  merely  referred  to  his  in- 
ward feelings  and  perceptions;  for  in  other  respects 
lie  is  well  acquainted  with  what  is  passing  in  the 
world.  He  knows  what  people  like,  and  what  to 
give  them  :  but  above  all  he  is  a  genuine  artist, 
which  is  the  chief  thing;  but  I  am  sure  I  need  not 
say  that  I  will  not  compose  music  for  any  words  I  do 
not  consider  really  good,  or  which  do  not  inspire  me, 
and  for  this  purpose  it  is  essential  that  I  should 
have  your  approval.  I  intend  to  reflect  deeply  on 
the  poem  before  I  begin  the  music.  The  dramatic 
interest  or  (hi  the  best  sense)  the  theatrical  portion 
26* 


30fi  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  sball  of  course  immediately  communicate  to  yon, 
and  in  short  look  on  the  affair  in  the  serious  light  it 
deserves.  The  first  step  however  is  taken,  and  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  deeply  I  should  regret  your  not 
being  pleased. 

There  is  however  one  thing  which  consoles  me, 
and  it  is  that  if  I  were  to  rely  on  my  own  judgment, 
I  would  again  act  precisely  as  I  have  now  done, 
though  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  a  great  deal  of  French  poetry,  and 
seeing  it  in  the  most  favourable  light.  Pray  pardon 
me  for  saying  exactly  what  I  think.  To  compose 
for  the  translation  of  a  French  libretto,  seems  to  me 
for  various  reasons  impracticable,  and  I  have  an  idea 
that  you  are  in  favour  of  it  more  on  account  of  the 
success  which  it  is  likely  to  enjoy  than  for  its  owe 
intrinsic  merit.  Moreover  I  well  remember  how 
much  you  disliked  the  subject  of  the  "Muette  de 
Portici,"  a  Mudte  too  who  had  gone  astray,  and  of 
""Wilhclm  Tell."  which  the  author  seems  almost 
purposely  to  have  rendered  tedious. 

The  success  however  these  enjoy  all  over  ijer- 
many  does  not  assuredly  depend  on  the  work  itself 
being  either  good  or  dramatic,  for  "  Tell  "  is  neither, 
but  on  their  coming  from  Paris,  and  having  pleased 
there.  Certainly  there  is  one  sure  road  to  fame  in 
Germany, — that  by  Paris  and  London;  still  it  is 
not  the  only  one;  this  is  proved  not  only  by  all 
Weber's  works,  but  also  by  those  of  Spohr.  whose 
"Faust"  is  here  considered  classical  music,  and 
which  is  to  be  given  at  the  great  Opera-house  in 


IMMORALITY    IN    OPERAS.  301 

London  next  season.  Besides.  I  could  not  possibly 
take  that  course,  as  my  groat  opera  has  been  be- 
spoken for  Munich,  and  I  have  accepted  the  com- 
mission, I  am  resolved  therefore  to  make  the 
attempt  in  Germany,  and  lo  remain  and  work  there 
so  long  as  I  can  continue  to  do  so,  and  yet  maintain 
myself,  for  this  I  consider  my  first  duty.  If  I  find 
that  I  cannot  do  this,  then  I  must  leave  it  for 
London  or  Paris,  where  it  is  easier  to  get  on.  I 
see  indeed  where  I  should  be  better  remunerated 
and  more  honoured,  and  live  more  gaily,  and  at 
my  ease,  than  in  Germany,  where  a  man  must  press 
forward,  and  toil,  and  take  no  rest, — still,  if  I  can 
succeed  there.  I  prefer  the  latter. 

None  of  the  new  libretti  here,  would  in  my  opinion 
be  attended  with  any  success  whatever,  if  brought 
out  for  the  first  time  on  a  German  stage.  One  of 
the  distinctive  characteristics  of  them  all,  is  pre- 
cisely of  a  nature  that  I  should  resolutely  oppose, 
although  the  taste  of  the  present  day  may  demand 
it,  and  I  quite  admit  that  it  may  in  general  be  more 
prudent  to  go  with  the  current  than  to  struggle 
against  it.  I  allude  to  that  of  immorality.  In 
"  Robert  le  Diable "  the  nuns  come  one  after  the 
other  to  allure  the  hero  of  the  piece,  till  at  last  the 
abbess  succeeds  in  doing  so :  the  same  hero  is  con- 
veyed by  magic  into  the  apartment  of  her  whom  he 
loves,  and  casts  her  from  him  in  an  attitude  which 
the  public  here  applauds,  and  probably  all  Germany 
will  do  the-  same  ;  she  then  implores  his  mercy  in  a 
grand  aria.  In  another  opera  a  young  girl  divests 


308  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

herself  of  her  garments,  and  sings  a  song  to  the 
effect  that  next  day  at  this  time  she  will  be  married ; 
all  this  produces  effect,  but  I  have  no  music  for 
such  things.  I  consider  it  ignoble,  so  if  the  present 
epoch  exacts  this  style,  and  considers  it  indispen- 
sable, then  1  will  write  oratorios. 

Another  strong  reason  why  it  would  prove  imprac- 
ticable is  that  no  French  poet  would  undertake  to 
furnish  me  with  a  poem.  Indeed,  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  procure  one  from  them  for  this  stage,  for 
all  the  best  authors  are  overwhelmed  with  commis- 
sions. At  the  same  time  I  think  it  quite  possible 
that  I  might  succeed  in  getting  one;  still  it  never 
would  occur  to  any  of  them  to  write  a  libretto  for  a 
German  theatre.  In  the  first  place  it  would  be 
much  more  feasible  to  give  the  opera  here,  and 
infinitely  more  rational  too;  in  the  second  place, 
they  would  decline  writing  for  any  other  stage  than 
the  French;  in  fact  they  could  not  realize  any  other. 
Above  all  it  would  be  impossible  to  procure  for  them 
a  sum  equivalent  to  what  they  receive  here  from  the 
theatres,  and  what  they  draw  as  their  share  from  the 
part  d'autcur. 

I  know  you  will  forgive  me  for  having  told  you 
my  opinion  without  reserve.  You  always  allowed 
me  to  do  so  in  conversation,  so  I  hope  you  will  not 
put  a  wrong  construction  on  what  1  have  written, 
and  I  beg  you  will  amend  my  views  by  communi- 
cating your  own. — Your  FELIX. 


LETTER    FROM    PARIS.  309 

Paris,  December  2oth,  1831. 

Dear  Rebecca, 

I  went  yesterday  to  the  Chambrc  dcs  D£put6s, 
and  I  must  no\v  tell  you  about  it ;  but  what  do  you 
care  about  the  Chambre  des  Deputes?  It  is  a  poli- 
tical song,  and  you  would  rather  hear  whether  I 
have  composed  any  love  songs,  or  bridal  songs,  or 
weJding  songs;  but  it  is  a  sad  pity,  that  no  songs 
but  political  ones  are  composed  here.  I  believe  I 
never  in  niy  life  passed  three  such  unmusical  weeks 
as  these.  I  feel  as  if  I  never  could  again  think  of 
composing:  this  all  arises  from  the  "juste  milieu;" 
but  it  is  still  worse  to  be  with  musicians,  for  they  do 
not  wrangle  about  politics,  but  lament  over  them. 
One  has  lost  his  place,  another  his  title,  a  third  his 
money,  and  they  say  this  all  proceeds  from  the 
"  Milieu." 

Yesterday  I  saw  the  "  Milieu,"  in  a  light  grey 
coat,  and  with  a  noble  air,  ill  the  first  place  on  the 
Ministerial  bench,  lie  was  sharply  attacked  by 
M.  Mauguin.  who  has  a  very  long  nose.  Of  course 
you  don't  care  for  all  this;  but  what  of  that?  I 
must  have  a  chat  with  you.  In  Italy  I  was  lazy,  in 
Switzerland  a  wild  student,  in  Munich  a  consumer 
of  cheese  and  beer,  and  so  in  Paris  I  must  talk 
politics.  I  intended  to  have  composed  various  sym- 
phonies, and  to  have  written  some  songs  for  certain 
ladies  in  Frankfort,  D'dsseldorf.  and  Berlin ;  but  aa 
yet  net  a  :hance  of  it.  Paris  obtrudes  herself,  and 
as  above  all  things  I  must  now  see  Paris,  so  I  am 
busily  engaged  in  seeing  it,  and  am  dumb. 


310  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

Moreover  I  am  freezing  with  cold — another  draw, 
back.  1  cannot  contrive  to  make  my  room  warm, 
and  I  am  not  to  get  another  and  warmer  apartment, 
till  New  Year's  Day.  In  a  dark  little  hole  on  the 
ground  floor,  overlooking  a  small  damp  garden, 
where  my  feet  are  like  ice,  how  can  I  possibly  write 
music?  It  is  bitterly  cold,  and  an  Italian  like  my- 
self is  peculiarly  susceptible.  At  this  moment  a 
man  outside  my  window  is  singing  a  political  song 
to  a  guitar. 

1  live  a  reckless  life — out  morning,  noon,  and 
night:  to-day  at  Baillot's;  to-morrow  I  go  to  some 
friends  of  the  Bigots  ;  the  next  day,  Valentin ; 
Monday.  Fould  ;  Tuesday,  Ililler;  Wednesday,  Ger- 
ard; and  the  pievious  week  it  was  just  the  same. 
In  the  forenoon  I  rush  off  to  the  Louvre,  and  gaze  at 
the  Raphaels,  and  my  favourite  Titian  ;  a  person 
might  well  wish  for  a  dozen  more  eyes  to  look  at 
such  a  picture. 

Yesterday  I  was  in  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  who 
were  engaged  in  pronouncing  judgment  on  their  own 
hereditary  rights,  and  I  saw  M.  Pu.squier's  wig.  The 
day  before  I  paid  two  musical  visits,  to  the  grumb- 
ling Clierubini.  and  the  kind  Jlerz.  There  is  a  large 
sign-board  before  the  house :  "  Manufacture  de 
Pianos,  par  Henri  Ilerz.  Marchand  dc  Modes  et  de 
Nouveautes."  I  thought  this  formed  one,  not  ob- 
serving that  it  was  a  notice  of  two  different  firms,  so 
I  went  in  below,  and  found  myself  surrounded  by 
gauze,  and  lace,  and  trimmings  :  so,  rather  abashed. 
I  asked  where  the  pianos  were.  A  number  of  Herz's 


M.    HENRI    HERZ.  311 

fair  scholars  with  industrious  faces,  wore  waiting 
upstairs.  I  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  read  your 
interesting  account  of  our  dear  father's  birth-day, 
and  so  forth.  ITerz  presently  arrived,  and  gave 
audience  to  his  pupils.  We  were  very  loving,  re- 
called old  times,  and  besprinkled  each  other  mutually 
with  great  praise.  On  his  pianos  is  inscribed : 
'•Medaille  d'or.  Exposition  <le  1827."  This  was 
very  imposing'. 

From  thence  I  went  to  Erard's,  where  I  tried  over 
hi?  instruments,  and  remarked  written  on  them  in 
largo  letters  :  "  Mednille  d'or.  Exposition  de  1827." 
My  respect  seemed  to  diminish.  When  I  -vent  home 
I  opened  my  own  instrument  by  Pleyel,  and  to  be 
sure  there  also  I  saw  in  large  letters  :  "  Medaille  d'or. 
Exposition  de  1827."  The  matter  is  like  the  title 
of  "  Hofruth."  but  it  is  characteristic.  It  is  alleged 
that  the  chambers  are  about  to  discuss  the  following 
proposition:  "Tons  ies  Franqais  du  sexe  masculin 
out  des  leur  naissance  le  droit  de  porter  1'ordre  de 
la  Legion  d'llonneur."  and  the  permission  to  appear 
without  the  order,  can  only  be  obtained  by  special 
services.  You  really  scarcely  see  a  man  in  the 
street  without  a  bit  of  coloured  ribbon,  so  it  is  uo 
longer  a  distinction. 

Api-i'iiox.  shall  I  be  lithographed  full  length? 
Answer  what  you  will.  I  don't  intend  to  do  it.  One 
afternoon  in  Berlin,  when  I  was  standing  uiiter  den 

Liii'lc/i  before  Schenk's  shop  looking  at  11 's 

and  ~\V 's  lithographs,  I  made  a  solemn  vow  to 

myself  unheard  by  man,  that  I  would  never  allow 


312  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

myself  to  be  hung  up  till  I  became  a  great  man. 
The  temptation  in  Munich  was  strong;  there  they 
\v\shcd  to  drape  me  with  a  Carbonaro  cloak,  a  stormy 
sky  in  the  background,  and  my  fac-simile  underneath, 
but  I  happily  got  off  by  adhering  to  my  principles. 
Here  again  I  am  rather  tempted,  for  the  likenesses 
are  very  striking,  but  I  keep  my  vow ;  and  if,  after 
all,  I  never  do  become  a  great  man,  though  posterity 
will  be  deprived  of  a  portrait,  it  will  have  an  absur- 
dity the  less. 

It  is  now  the  24th,  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant 
evening  at  Baillot's  yesterday.  lie  plays  beautifully, 
and  had  collected  a  very  musical  society  of  attentive 
ladies  and  enthusiastic  gentlemen,  and  I  have  seldom 
been  so  well  amused  in  any  circle,  or  enjoyed  such 
honours.  It  was  the  greatest  possible  delight  to  me 
to  hear  my  quartett  in  E  flat  major  (dedicated  to  B. 
P.)  performed  in  Paris  by  Baillot's  quartett,  and 
they  executed  it  with  fire  and  spirit.  They  com- 
menced with  a  quintctt  by  Bocherini,  an  old-fashioned 
perruque,  but  a  very  amiable  old  gentleman  under- 
neath it.  The  company  then  asked  for  a  sonata  of 
Bach's  ;  we  selected  the  one  in  A  major  ;  old  familiar 
tones  dawned  once  more  on  me,  of  the  time  when 
Baillot  played  it  with  Madame  Bigot.*  AVe  urged 
each  other  on,  the  affair  became  animated,  and  so 
thoroughly  amused  both  us  and  our  audience,  that 
we  immediately  commenced  the  one  in  K  major,  and 
next  time  we  mean  to  introduce  the  four  others. 


»  The  lady  who  instructed  Mendelssohn  in  the  piauo  in 
When  the  family  resided  there  for  a  time  ill  1  51d. 


CONGENIAL    FRIENDS.  313 

Then  my  turn  came  to  play  a  solo.  T  was  in  the 
vein  to  extemporize  successfully,  and  felt  that  I  did 
so.  The  guests  being  now  in  a  graver  mood,  I  took 
three  themes  from  the  previous  sonatas,  and  worked 
them  up  to  my  heart's  content;  it  seemed  to  give 
immense  pleasure  to  those  present,  for  they  shouted 
and  applauded  like  mad.  Then  IJaillot  gave  my 
qmirtett ;  his  manner  towards  me  has  something 
very  kind,  and  I  was  doubly  pleased,  as  he  is  rather 
cold  at  first  and  seldom  makes  advances  to  any 
one.  lie  appears  a  good  deal  depressed  by  the  loss 
of  his  situation.  I  saw  a  number  of  old  well-known 
faces,  and  they  asked  after  you  all,  and  recalled 
many  anecdotes  of  that  former  period. 

When  I  was  passing  through  Louvain  two  years 
ago  with  my  '•  Liederspiel "  in  *:iy  head,  and  my 
injured  knee,*  I  seized  the  brass  handle  of  a  pump 
to  prevent  myself  from  falling  ;  and  when  I  returned 
this  year  in  the  same  miserable  diligence,  driven  by 
a  postilion  exactly  similar,  with  a  big  queue,  the 
"Liederspiel,"  my  knee,  and  Italy,  were  all  things 
of  the  past;  and  yet  the  handle  of  the  pump  was 
still  hanging  there,  as  clean  and  brightly  rubbed  up 
as  ever,  having  survived  18IJO,  and  all  the  revolu- 
tionary storms,  and  remaining  quite  unchanged. 
This  is  sentimental ;  my  father  must  not  read  it.  for 
it  is  the  old  story  of  the  past  and  the  present,  which 
we  discussed  so  eagerly  one  fine  evening,  and  which 
recurs  to  me  among  the  crov.'d  here  at  every  step. 


*  Mendelssohn  had  been  thrown  out  of  a  cabriolet  iu  London  in 
1829,  and  his  knee  seriously  iujnrod. 

27 


314  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  thought  of  it  at  the  Madeleine,  and  when  I  went  to 

aunt  J 's,  and  at  the  Hotel  dcs  Princes,  and  at 

the  gallery,  which  my  father  showed  me  fifteen  years 
ago,  and  when  I  saw  the  coloured  signs,  which  at 
that  time  impressed  me  exceedingly,  and  are  now 
grown  brown  and  shabby. 

Moreover  this  is  Christmas  Eve  ;  but  I  feel  little 
interest  in  it.  or  in  New  Year's  Night  either.  Please 
God,  another  year  may  wear  a  very  different  aspect, 
and  I  will  not  then  go  to  the  theatre  on  Christmas 
Eve,  as  I  am  about  to  do  to-night,  to  hear  Lablache 
and  Rossini  for  the  first  time.  How  little  I  care 
about  it !  I  should  much  prefer  Policliindles  and 
apples  to-day,  and  I  think  it  very  doubtful  whether 
the  orchestra  will  play  as  pretty  a  symphony  as  my 
"Kinder-Sinfonie."*  I  must  be  satisfied  with  it 
however.  I  am  now  modulating  into  the  minor  key, 
a  fault  with  which  the  "  Ecole  Allemande  "  are  often 
reproached,  and  as  I  profess  not  to  belong  to  the 
latter,  the  French  say  I  am  cosmopolite.  Heaven 
defend  me  from  being  anything  of  the  kind  ! 

And  now  good-bye;  a  thousand  compliments  from 
Bertin  de  Yaux,  Girod  de  PAiti,  Dupont  de  1'Enre, 
Tracy,  Sacy.  Passy  and  other  kind  friends.  I  had 
intended  to  have  told  you  in  this  letter  how  Salverte 
attacked  the  Ministers,  and  how  during  this  time  a 
little  4meute  took  place  on  the  Pont  Neuf ;  how  I 
sat  in  the  Chambers  along  with  Franck,  in  the  midst 
of  St.  Simoniens ;  how  witty  Dupin  was ;  but  no 


*  A  "  Kinder-Sinfonie,"  composed  by  Mendelssohn  in  the  jvar 
1829,  fa   a  Christinas  family  fete. 


LIFE   IX    PARIS.  315 

more  at  present.     May  you  all  be  well  and  happy 
this  evening,  and  thinking  of  me  ! 

FELIX. 


Paris,  December  28th,  1831. 
Dear  Madam  Fanny, 

For  three  months  past  I  have  been  thinking  of 
writing  you  a  musical  letter,  but  my  procrastination 
hus  its  revenge,  for  though  I  have  been  a  fortnight 
here.  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  still  be  able  to  do 
so.  I  have  appeared  in  every  possible  mood  here  ; 
in  that  of  an  inquiring,  admiring  traveller  ;  a  cox- 
comb ;  a  Frenchman,  and  yesterday  actually  as  a 
Peer  of  France  ;  but  not  yet  as  a  musician.  Indeed 
there  is  little  likelihood  of  the  latter,  for  the  aspect 
of  music  here  is  miserable  enough. 

The  concerts  in  the  Conservatoire,  which  were  my 
great  object,  probably  will  not  take  p-!ace  at  all,  be- 
cause the  Commission  of  the  Ministry  wished  to  give 
a  Commission  to  the  Commission  of  the  society,  to 
deprive  a  Commission  of  Professors  of  their  share  of 
the  profits;  on  which  the  Commission  of  the  Conser- 
vatoire replied  to  the  Commission  of  the  Ministry, 
that  they  might  go  and  be  hanged  (suspended),  and 
then  they  would  not  consent  to  it.  The  newspapers 
make  some  very  severe  comments  on  this,  but  you 
need  not  read  them,  as  these  papers  are  prohibited 
in  Berlin;  but  you  don't  lose  much  by  this.  The 
Opera  Comique  is  bankrupt,  and  so  it  has  had 


316  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTEKS. 

reldche  since  I  came ;  at  the  Grand  Opera,  they 
only  give  little  operas,  which  amuse  me,  though 
they  neither  provoke  nor  excite  me.  "  Armida r>  was 
the  last  great  opera,  but  they  gave  it  in  three  acts, 
and  this  was  two  years  ago.  Chorun's  "Institut" 
is  closed,  the  "  Chapelle  Royale"  is  gone  out  like  a 
light ;  not  a  single  Mass  is  to  be  heard  on  Sundays 
in  all  Paris,  unless  accompanied  by  serpents.  Mali- 
bran  is  lo  appear  here  next  week  for  the  last  lime. 
So  much  the  better,  say  you  :  retire  within  yourself, 
and  write  music  for  "  Ach  Gott  vom  Hirnmcl,"  or  a 
symphony,  or  the  new  violin  quartctt  which  you 
mentioned  in  your  letter  to  me  of  the  28th,  or  any 
other  serious  composition ;  but  this  is  even  more 
impossible,  for  what  is  going  on  here  is  most  deeply 
interesting,  and  entices  you  out,  suggesting  matter 
for  thought  and  memory  and  absorbing  every  mo- 
ment of  time.  Accordingly  I  was  yesterday  in  the 
Chambre  des  Pairs,  and  counted  along  with  them 
the  votes,  destined  to  abolish  a  very  ancient  privi- 
lege ;  immediately  afterwards  I  hurried  off  to  the 
Theatre  Francais,  where  Mars  was  to  appear  for 
the  first  time  for  a  year  past ;  (she  is  fascinating 
beyond  conception  ;  a  voice  that  we  shall  never  hear 
equalled,  causing  you  to  weep,  and  yet  to  feel  pleas- 
ure in  doing  so).  To-day  I  must  see  Taglioni  again, 
who  along  with  Mars  constitutes  two  Graces  ( if  I 
find  a  third  in  rny  travels,  I  mean  to  marry  her), 
and  afterwards  I  mean  to  go  to  Gerard's  classical 
salon.  I  lately  went  to  hear  Lablache  and  Ilubini, 
after  hearing  Odillou  Barrot  quarrel  with  the  Minis- 


LIFE    IN    PARIS.  317 

try.  Having  seen  the  pictures  in  the  Louvre  in  the 
morning,  I  went  to  Baillot's  ;  so  what  chance  is  there 
of  living  in  retirement?  The  outer  world  is  too 
tempting. 

There  are  moments,  however,  when  my  thoughts 
turn  inwards  —  such  us  on  that  memorable  evening, 
when  Lublache  sang  so  beautifully,  or  on  Christmas- 
day.  when  there  were  no  bells  and  no  festivities,  or 
when  Paul's  letter  came  from  London,  inviting  me 
to  visit  him  next  spring;  the  said  spring  to  be 
passed  in  England.  Then  I  feel  that  all  that  now 
interests  me  is  merely  superficial  :  that  I  am  neither 
a  politician,  nor  a  dancer,  nor  an  actor,  nor  a  bel 
ctp  ri/,  but  a  musician  —  so  I  take  courage,  and  am 
now  writing  a  professional  letter  to  my  dear  sister. 

My  conscience  smote  me,  especially  when  I  read 
about  your  new  music  that  you  so  carefully  con- 
ducted on  my  father's  birthday,  and  I  reproached 
myself  for  not  having  said  a  single  word  to  you 
about  your  previous  composition  ;  but  I  cannot  let 
you  off  that,  my  colleague  !  AVhat  the  deuce  made 
you  think  of  setting  your  G  horns  so  high?  Did 
you  ever  hear  a  G  horn  take  the  high  G  without  a 
squeak?  I  only  put  this  to  yourself!  and  at  the 
end  of  this  introduction,  when  wind  instruments 


stare  you  in  the  face,  and  do  not  these  deep  oboes 

growl  away  all  pastoral  feeling,  and  all  bloom  ?    Do 

you  not  know  that  you  ousrht  to  take  out  a  license 

27* 


318  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

to  sanction  your  writing  the  low  B  for  oboes,  and 
that  it  is  only  permitted  on  particular  occasions, 
such  as  witches,  or  some  great  grief?  Has  not  the 
composer  evidently,  in  the  A  major  air,  overloaded 
the  voice  by  too  many  other  parts,  so  that  the  deli- 
cate intention,  and  the  lovely  melody  of  this  other- 
wise charming  piece,  with  all  its  beauties,  is  quite 
obscured  and  eclipsed  ? 

To  speak  seriously,  however,  this  aria  is  very 
beautiful,  and  particularly  fascinating.  But  1  have 
a  remark  to  make  about  your  two  choruses,  which 
indeed  applies  rather  to  the  text  than  to  you.  These 
two  choruses  are  not  sufficiently  original.  This 
sounds  absurd  ;  but  rny  opinion  is  that  it  is  the  ftuilt 
of  the  words,  that  express  nothing  original ;  one 
single  expression  might  have  improved  the  whole,  but 
as  they  now  stand,  they  would  be  equally  suitable  for 
church  music,  a  cantata,  an  offertorium.  etc.  "Where, 
however,  they  are  not  of  such  universal  application, 
as  for  example,  the  lament  at  the  end,  they  seem  to 
be  sentimental  and  not  natural.  The  words  of  the 
last  chorus  are  too  material  ("init  dem  kraf'tlosen 
Mund.  und  der  sich  regenden  Zunge").  At  the 
beginning  of  the  aria  alone,  are  the  words  vigorous 
and  spirited,  and  from  them  emanated  the  whole  of 
your  lovely  piece  of  music.  The  choruses  are  of 
course  fine,  for  they  are  written  by  you;  but  in  the 
first  place,  it  seems  to  me  that  they  might  be  by  any 
other  good  master,  and  secondly,  as  if  they  were  not 
necessarily  what  they  are,  indeed  as  if  they  might 
have  been  differently  composed.  This  arises  from 


FRIEXDT-T    CRITICISM.  319 

the  poetry  not  imposing  any  particular  music.  I 
know  that  the  latter  is  often  the  case  with  my  own 
compositions;  but  though  I  am  fully  aware  of  the 
beam  in  my  own  eyes,  I  would  fain  extract,  the  mote 
from  yours,  to  relieve  you  at  once  from  its  pressure. 

My  resume  therefore  is,  that  I  would  advise  you 
to  be  more  cautious  in  the  choice  of  your  words, 
because,  after  all.  it  is  not  everything  in  the  Bible, 
even  if  it  suits  the  theme,  that  is  suggestive  of 
music;  but  you  have  probably  obviated  these  ob- 
jections of  mine  in  your  new  cantata,  before  being 
aware  of  them,  in  which  case,  I  might  as  well  have 
said  nothing.  So  much  the  better  if  it  be  so.  and 
then  you  can  prosecute  me  for  defamation  !  So  far 
a?  your  music  and  composition  are  concerned,  they 
quite  suit  my  taste  ;  the  young  lady's  cloven  foot 
nowhere  peeps  forth,  and  if  I  knew  any  Kapellmeister 
capable  of  writing  such  music.  I  would  give  him  a 
place  at  my  court.  Fortunately  I  know  no  such 
person,  and  there  is  no  occasion  to  place  you  at  my 
right  hand  at  court,  as  you  are  there  already.* 

"When  do  you  mean  to  send  me  something  new  to 
cheer  me  ?  Pray  do  so  soon!  As  far  as  regards 
myself,  shortly  after  my  arrival  here.  I  had  one  of 
those  attacks  of  musical  spleen,  when  all  music,  and 
more  especially  one's  own.  becomes  actually  hateful. 
I  felt  thoroughly  unmusical,  and  did  nothing  but  cat 

and  sleep,  and  that  revived  me.  F ,  to  whom  1 

complained  of  my  state,  instantly  constructed  a 


*  A  play  upon  F^nnv  Hensei's  house,  in  a  court — Xo.  3,  Leip* 
tiger  Strasse. 


320 

musical  theory  on  (lie  subject,  proving  that  it  could 
not  be  otherwise.;  1  however  think  exactly  the 
reverse;  but  though  we  are  so  entirely  dissimilar, 
and  have  as  many  differences  as  a  Bushman  and 
CafTYe,  still  we  like  each  other  exceedingly. 

With   L .  too,  I  get  on  famously.     lie  is  very 

pleasing,  and  the  most  dilettante  of  all  the  dilettanti 
I  ever  met.  lie  knows  everything  by  heart,  and 
plays  wrong  basses  to  them  all ;  he  is  only  de 
ficient  in  arrogance,  for  with  all  his  undeniable 
talent,  he  is  very  modest  and  retiring.  I  am  much 
with  him,  because  he  is  a  benevolent,  kind-hearted 
man  ;  we  should  thoroughly  agree  on  all  points,  if 
he  would  not  consider  me  a  doctrinaire,  and  persist 
in  talking  politics  (a  subject  that  I  wish  to  avoid 
for  at  least  a  hundred  and  twenty  reasons  ;  and 
chiefly  because  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  it); 
besides,  he  delights  in  hitting  at  Germany,  and  in 
depreciating  London  in  favour  of  Paris.  Both  these 
things  are  prejudicial  to  my  constitution,  and  who- 
ever assails  that,  I  must  defend  it  and  dispute  with 
him. 

I  was  yesterday  studying  your  now  music,  and 
enjoying  it,  when  Kalkbrenuer  came  in,  and  played 
various  new  compositions.  The  man  is  become 
quite  romantic,  purloins  themes,  ideas,  and  similar 
trifles,  from  Miller,  writes  pieces  in  F  sharp  minor, 
practises  every  day  for  several  hours,  and  is  as  he 
always  was,  a  knowing  fellow.  Kvery  time  I  see 
him,  he  inquires  after  "my  charming  sister,  whom 
he  likes  so  much,  and  who  has  such  a  line  talent  for 


LIFE    IN    PARIS.  321 

playing  and  composing."  My  invariable  reply  is, 
that  she  has  not  given  up  music,  that  she  is  very  in- 
dustrious, and  that  I  love  her  very  much;  which  is 
all  true.  And  now  farewell,  dear  sister.  May  you 
be  well  and  happy,  and  may  we  meet  at  the  New 
Year.  FELIX. 


To  CARL  IMMERMANN  IN  DUSSELDOKF. 

Paris,  January  nth,  1831. 

You  permitted  me  to  give  you  occasional  tidings 
of  myself,  and  since  I  came  here,  I  have  daily  in- 
tended to  do  so ;  the  excitement  here  is  however  so 
great,  that  till  to-day  I  have  never  been  able  to  write. 
When  I  contrast  this  constant  whirl  and  commotion, 
and  the  thousand  distractions  among  a  foreign 
people,  with  your  house  in  the  garden,  and  your 
warm  winter  room,  your  wish  to  exchange  with  me 
and  to  come  here  in  my  place,  often  recurs  to  me, 
and  I  almost  wish  I  had  taken  you  at  your  word. 
You  must  indeed  in  that  case  have  remained  all  the 
same  in  your  winter  room,  so  that  I  might  come  out 
to  you  through  the  snow,  take  my  usual  place  in  the 
corner,  and  listen  to  the  "Schwanritter ;"  for  there 
is  more  life  in  it  than  in  all  the  tumult  here. 

In  a  word,  I  rejoice  at  the  prospect  of  my  return 
to  Germany ;  everything  there  is  indeed  on  a  small 
scale,  and  homely,  if  you  will,  but  men  live  there; 


322  MEXDELSSOIIN  S    LETTERS. 

men  who  know  what  art  really  is,  who  do  not  admire, 
nor  praise,  in  fact  who  do  not  criticize,  hut  create. 
You  do  not  admit  this,  but  it  is  only  hccause  you  are 
yourself  among  the  number. 

I  beg  you  will  not  however  think  that  I  am  like 
one  of  those  German  youths  with  long  hair,  lounging 
about  listlessly,  and  pronouncing  the  French  superfi- 
cial, and  Paris  frivolous.  I  only  say  all  this  because 
I  now  thoroughly  enjoy  and  admire  Paris,  and  am 
becoming  better  acquainted  with  it.  and  especially 
as  I  am  writing  to  you  in  Dlisseldorf,  I  have,  on  the 
contrary,  cast  myself  headlong  into  the  vortex,  and 
do  nothing  the  whole  day  but  see  new  objects,  the 
Chambers  of  Peers  and  Deputies,  pictures  and  thea- 
tres, dio-  neo-  cosmo-  and  panoramas,  constant  parties, 
etc.  Moreover,  the  musicians  here  are  as  numerous 
as  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore,  all  hating  each  other; 
so  each  must  be  individually  visited,  and  wary  diplo- 
macy is  advisable,  for  they  are  all  gossips,  and  what 
one  says  to  another,  the  whole  corps  know  next 
morning. 

The  days  have  thus  flown  past  hitherto  as  if  only 
half  as  long  as  they  were  in  reality,  and  as  yet  I  have 
not  been  able  to  compose  a  single  liar  ;  in  a  few  days, 
however,  this  exotic  life  will  cease.  My  head  is  now 
dizzy  from  all  I  have  seen  and  wondered  at ;  but  I 
then  intend  to  collect  my  thoughts,  and  set  to  work, 
when  I  shall  feel  once  more  happy  and  domesticated. 

My  chief  pleasure  is  going  to  the  little  theatres  in 
the  evening,  because  there  French  life  and  the 
French  people  are  truly  mirrored;  the  "  Gymuase 


LIFE    IX    PARIS.  323 

Dramatique"  is  my  particular  favourite,  where 
nothing  is  given  but  small  vaudevilles.  The  ex- 
treme bitterness  and  deep  animosity  which  pervade 
all  these  little  comedies,  are  most  remarkable,  and 
although  partially  cloaked  by  the  prettiest  phrases, 
and  the  most  lively  acting,  become  only  the  more 
conspicuous.  Politics  everywhere  play  the  chief 
pnrt.  which  might  have  sufficed  to  make  me  dislike 
tlie.se  theatres,  for  we  have  enough  of  them  dse- 
iclu-re;  but  the  politics  of  the  "  Gymnase  "  are  of  a 
light  and  ironical  description. — referring  to  the  oc- 
currences of  the  day,  and  to  the  newspapers,  in  order 
to  excite  laughter  and  applause,  and  at  last  you 
can't  help  laughing  and  applauding  .with  the  rest. 
Politics  and  sensuality  are  the  two  grand  points  of 
interest,  round  which  everything  circles;  and  in  the 
many  pieces  I  have  seen,  an  attack  on  the  Ministry, 
and  a  scene  of  seduction,  were  never  absent. 

The  whole  style  of  the  vaudeville,  introducing 
c'-rtain  conventional  music  at  the  end  of  tne  scene 
in  every  piece,  when  the  actors  partly  sing  and 
partly  declaim  some  couplets  with  a  witty  point,  is 
thoroughly  French ;  we  could  never  learn  this,  nor 
in  fact  wish  to  do  so,  for  this  mode  of  connecting 
the  wit  of  the  day  with  an  established  refrain,  does 
not  exist  in  our  conversation,  nor  in  our  ideas.  I 
cannot  imagine  anything  more  striking  and  effective, 
nor  yet  more  prosaic. 

A  great  sensation  has  been  recently  caused  here, 
by  a  new  piece  at  the  Gymnase.  "  Le  Luthier  da 
Lisboune,"  which  forms  the  delight  of  the  public, 


324  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

A  stranger  is  announced  in  the  play-hills;  <•  nrcoly 
:1;  es  lie  appear  \viicn  all  the  audience  begin  to  laugh 
:uid  to  applaud,  and  you  le.irn  that  the  actor  is  a 
close  imitation  of  Don  Miguel,  in  gestuivs.  manner, 
and  costume;  he  proceeds  to  announce  that  he  is  a 
king,  and  the  fortune  of  the  piece  is  made.  The 
more  stupid,  uncivilized,  and  uncouth,  the  Unknown 
appears,  the  greater  is  the  enjoyment  of  the  public, 
who  allow  none  of  his  gestures  or  speeches  to  pass  un- 
observed, lie  takes  refuge  from  a  riot  in  the  house 
of  this  instrument  maker,  who  is  the  most  devoted 
of  all  royalists,  lint  unluckily  the  husband  of  a  very 
pretty  woman.  One  of  Don  Miguel's  favourites  has 
forced  her  to  grant  him  a  rendezvous  for  the  ensuing 
night,  and  he  begs  the  king — who  arrives  at  this 
moment— to  give  him  his  aid.  by  causing  the  husband 
to  be  beheaded.  Don  Miguel  replies,  "Tres  volon- 
tiers,"  and  while  the  huthier  recognizes  him,  and 
fails  at  his  feet,  beside  himself  from  joy.  Don  Miguel 
signs  his  death-warrant,  but  also  that  of  his  favourite, 
whom  he  means  to  replace  with  the  pretty  woman 
At  each  enormity  that  he  commits,  we  laugh  and 
applaud,  and  are  immensely  delighted  with  this 
stupid  stage  Don  Miguel.  So  ends  the  first  act. 
In  the  second,  it  is  supposed  to  lie  midnight;  the 
pretty  w'i'e  aline  and  agitated.  Don  Miguel  jump* 
i:i  at  the  window,  and  dues  all  in  his  power  to  gain 
her  Favour,  ma!  ing  her  dunce  and  sing  to  him.  but 
s'.o  cannot  endure  him.  and  falls  at  las  feet,  im- 
ploring him  to  spare  her;  on  which  he  seizes  her, 
and  drags  her  repeatedly  round  the  stage,  and  if  she 


'  LE    LUTHIER    DE    LISBOXXE.'  325 

did  not  make  a  snatch  at  a  knife,  and  then  a  sudden 
knocking  ensue,  she  might  have  been  in  a  bad  plight; 
at  the  close,  the  worthy  Luthier  rescues  the  king 
from  the  hands  of  the  French  soldiery,  who  are  just 
arrived,  and  of  whose  valour,  and  love  of  liberty,  he 
has  a  great  horror.  So  the  piece  ends  happily. 

A  little  comedy  followed,  where  the  wife  betrays 
her  husband,  and  has  a  lover ;  and  another,  where 
the  man  is  faithless  to  his  wife,  and  is  maintained  by 
his  mistress  ;  this  is  succeeded  by  a  satire  on  the 
new  constructions  in  the  Tuileries,  and  on  the  Minis- 
try, and  so  it  goes  on. 

I  cannot  say  how  it  may  be  at  the  French  Opera, 
for  it  is  bankrupt,  so  there  has  been  no  acting  there 
since  I  came.  In  the  Academic  Royale.  however. 
Meyerbeer's  "Robert  le  Diable"  is  played  every 
night  with  great  success:  the  house  is  always 
crowded,  and  the  music  has  given  general  satisfac- 
tion. There  is  an  expenditure  of  all  possible  means 
of  producing  stage  effect,  that  I  never  saw  equalled 
on  any  stage.  All  who  can  sing,  dance,  or  act  in 
Paris,  sing,  dance,  and  act  on  this  occasion. 

The  fiijr-t  is  romantic  ;  that  is,  the  devil  appears 
in  the  piece — (this  is  quite  sufficient  romance  and 
imagination  for  the  Parisians).  It  is  however  very 
bad ;  and  were  it  not  I'd*  two  brilliant  scenes  of 
seduction  it  would  produce  no  effect  whatever. 
The  devil  is  a  poor  devil,  and  appears  in  armour, 
for  the  purpose  of  leading  astray  his  son  Robert,  a 
Norman  knight,  who  loves  a  Sicilian  princess.  He 
succeeds  iu  inducing  him  to  stake  his  money  and  all 
28 


326  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

his  personal  property  (that  is,  his  sword)  at  dice, 
and  then  makes  him  commit  sacrilege,  giving  him  a 
magic  branch,  which  enables  him  to  penetrate  into 
the  Princess's  apartment,  and  renders  him  irresisti- 
ble. The  son  does  all  this  with  apparent  willingness; 
but  when  at  the  end  he  is  to  assign  himself  to  his 
father,  who  declares  that  he  loves  him,  and  cannot 
live  without  him,  the  devil,  or  rather  the  poet 
Scribe,  introduces  a  peasant  girl,  who  has  in  her 
possession  the  will  of  Robert's  deceased  mother, 
and  reads  him  the  document,  which  makes  him 
doubt  the  story  he  has  been  told;  so  the  devil  is 
obliged  1o  sink  down  through  a  trap-door  at  mid- 
night, with  his  purpose  unfulfilled,  on  which  Robert 
marries  the  Princess,  and  the  peasant  girl,  it  seems, 
is  intended  to  represent  the  principle  of  good.  The 
devil  is  called  Bertram. 

I  cannot  imagine  how  any  music  could  be  com- 
posed on  such  a  cold,  formal  extravaganza  as  this, 
and  so  tin:  opera  docs  not  satisfy  me.  It  is  through- 
out frigid  and  heartless  ;  and  where  this  is  the  case 
it  produces  no  effect  on  me.  The  people  extol  the 
music,  but  where  warmth  and  truth  are  wanting.  I 
have  no  test  to  apply. 

Michael  Beer  set  off  to-day  for  Havre.  It  seems 
he  intends  to  compose  poetry  there ;  and  I  now  re- 
member that  when  I  met  you  one  day  at  Schadow's, 
and  maintained  that  he  was  no  poet,  your  rejoinder 
was,  "  That  is  a  matter  of  taste."  I  seldom  see 
Heine,  because  he  is  entirely  absorbed  in  liberal 
ideas  and  in  politics.  He  has  recently  published 


'  FRCHI.IXGS    MEDER.'  327 

sixty  "Frlihlings  Liedor."  Very  few  of  them  seem 
to  me  either  genuine  or  truthful,  but  these  few  are 
indeed  inimitable.  Have  you  read  them  ?  They 
appeared  in  the  second  volume  of  the  •' Ileisebilder." 
Borne  intends  to  publish  some  new  volumes  of  let- 
ters :  lie  and  I  are  full  of  enthusiasm  for  Malibran 
and  Taglioni;  all  these  g'entlemen  are  abusing  and 
reviling  (Jermany  and  all  that  is  (Jcrman.  and  yet 
they  cannot  speak  even  tolerable  French  ;  I  think 
this  rather  provoking. 

Pray  excuse  my  having  sent  you  so  much  gossip, 
and  for  writing  to  you  on  such  a  disreputable  margin 
of  paper:  but  it  is  long  since  we  met  ;  and  as  for  a 
time  I  could  see  you  every  day.  it  has  become  quite 
a  necessity  to  write  to  you  ;  so  you  must  not  take  it 
amiss.  You  once  promised  to  send  me  a  few  lines 
in  reply  :  I  don't  know  whether  I  may  venture  to 
remind  you  of  this,  but  I  should  really  be  glad  to 
hear  how  you  pass  your  time,  and  what  novelty  a 
certain  cupboard  in  the  corner  contains  ;  how  you 
get  on  with  ".Merlin,"  and  my  ••  Schwanritter,"  the 
sound  of  which  still  vibrates  in  my  ears  like  sweet 
music  ;  and  also  whether  you  sometimes  think  of  me, 
and  of  next  May,  and  "The  Tempest."  It  is  cer- 
tuinly  expecting  a  good  deal  to  ask  you  for  an  early 
reply  to  my  letter,  but  I  fear  that  you  had  enough 
of  the  first,  and  would  rather  not  receive  a  second; 
therefore  I  take  courage,  and  beg  for  an  answer 
to  this  one.  But  I  need  not  have  asked  this,  for 
you  usually  guess  my  wishes  before  I  can  utter 
them  ;  and  if  you  are  as  kindly  disposed  towards 


328  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

me  now  as  you  were  then,  you  will  fulfil  this  desi  .* 
of  mine  as  you  did  all  the  others. — Yours. 

FELIX  MENDELSSOHN  BARTHOLDY. 


Paris,  January  I4th,  1832. 

I  now  first  begin  to  feel  at  home  here,  and  really 
to  know  Paris  ;  it  is  indeed  the  most  singular  and 
amusing  place  imaginable  ;  but  for  one  who  is  no 
politician,  it  does  not  possess  so  much  interest.  So 
I  have  become  a  doctrinaire,  I  read  my  newspaper 
every  morning,  form  my  own  opinion  about  peace 
and  war,  and,  only  among  friends,  confess  that  I 
know  nothing  of  the  matter. 

This  is  however  not  the  case  with  F ,  who  is 

completely  absorbed  in  the  vortex  of  dilettantism  and 
dogmatism,  and  really  believes  himself  quite  adapted 
to  be  a  Minister.  It  is  a  sad  pity,  for  nothing  good 
will  ever  come  of  it.  lie  has  sufficient  sense  to  be 
always  occupied,  but  not  enough  to  conduct  any 
affair.  He  is  a  dilettante  on  all  points,  and  has  a 
clever  knack  of  criticizing  others,  but  he  produces 
nothing.  We  continue  on  the  same  intimate  terms, 
meeting  every  day,  and  liking  each  other's  society, 
hut  inwardly  we  remain  strangers.  I  suspect  that 
lie  writes  for  the  public  papers;  he  is  very  much 
with  Heine,  and  chatters  abuse  against  Germany 
like  a  magpie ;  all  this  I  much  dislike,  and  as  1 
really  have  a  sincere  regard  for  him,  it  worries  me. 


PT.    STMOXTEXS.  329 

f  suppose  I  must  try  to  become  accustomed  to  it. 
but  it  is  really  too  sad  to  know  where  a  person  is 
deficient,  and  yet  to  be  unable  to  remedy  their 
defects.  Moreover  he  grows  visibly  older  ;  so  this 
irregular,  unoccupied  life  is  the  less  suitable  for 
him. 

A has  left  his  parents'  house,  and  gone  to  the 

Rue  Monsigny,*  where  body  and  soul  are  equally 
engrossed.  1  have  in  my  possession  an  appeal 
to  mankind  from  P in  which  he  makes  his  con- 
fession of  faith,  and  invites  every  one  to  surrender 
a  share  of  his  property,  however  small,  to  the  St. 
Simoniens ;  calling  on  all  artists  to  devote  their 
genius  in  future  to  tins  religion;  to  compose  better 
music  than  Rossini  or  Beethoven;  to  build  temples 
of  peace,  and  to  paint  like  Raphael  or  David.  1  have 

twenty  copies  of  this  pamphlet,  which  P desired 

me.  di'ar  Father,  to  send  to  you.  I  rest  satisfied  by 
sending  you  one,  which  you  will  find  quite  enough, 
and  even  that  one.  by  some  private  hand  of  course. 

It  is  a  bad  sign  of  the  state  of  the  public  mind 
here,  that  such  a  monstrous  doctrine,  in  such  de- 
testable prose,  should  ever  have  existed,  or  impressed 
others ;  for  it  appears  that  the  students  of  the  Poly- 
technic School  take  considerable  interest  in  it.  It 
is  difficult  to  say  how  far  it  may  be  carried,  whea 
there  is  temptation  offered  on  every  side,  promising 
honour  to  one.  fame  to  another  ;  to  me,  an  admiring 
public,  and  to  the  poor,  money  ;  while  by  their  cold 


•  At  that  time  the  residence  of  the  St.  Simoniens. 

28* 


330  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

estimate  of  talent,  they  check  all  effort  and  all 
progress.  And  then  their  ideas  as  to  universal 
brotherhood,  their  disbelief  in  hell,  and  the  devil, 
and  eternal  perdition,  and  of  the  annihilation  of  till 
egotism, — ideas,  which  in  our  country  spring  from 
nature,  and  prevail  in  every  part  of  Christendom, 
and  without  which  I  should  not  wish  to  live,  but 
which  they  however  regard  as  a  new  invention  and 
discovery,  constantly  repeating  that  they  mean  to 
transform  the  world,  and  to  render  mankind  happy. 

A coolly  tells  me  that  he  docs  not  require  to 

improve  himself,  but  others  only ;  because  he  is  not 
at  all  imperfect,  but  on  the  contrary,  perfect.  They 
not  only  praise  and  compliment  each  other,  but  all 
those  whom  they  wish  to  gain  over;  extolling  any 
t.ilent  or  capability  you  may  possess, and  lamenting 
that  such  great  powers  should  be  lost,  by  adhering 
to  the  old-fashioned  notions  of  duty,  vocation,  and 
action,  as  they  were  formerly  interpreted.  When  I 
listen  to  all  this,  it  does  seem  to  me  a  melancholy 
mystification.  I  attended  a  meeting  last  Sunday, 
where  all  the  Fathers  sat  in  a  circle:  then  came 
the  principal  Father  and  demanded  their  reports, 
praising  .and  blaming  them,  addressing  the  assembly, 
and  issuing  his  commands  ;  to  me  it  was  quite  awful ! 

A has  completely  renounced  his  parents,  and 

lives  with  the  Fathers,  his  disciples,  and  is  en- 
deavouring to  procure  a  loan  for  their  benefit;  but 
enough  of  this  subject  ! 

A  .Pole  gives  a  concert  next  week,  where  I  am  to 
play  in  a  composition  for  six  performers,  along  with 


ROMANTIC    SCHOOL.  331 

Kalkbrenner,  Hillcr,  and  Co. ;  do  not  be  surprised 
therefore  if  you  see  my  name  mutilated,  as  in  the 
"  Messager "  lately,  when  the  death  of  Professor 
Flegel  (Hegel)  was  announced  from  Berlin,  and  all 
the  papers  copied  it, 

I  have  set  to  work  again,  and  live  most  agreeably. 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  write  to  you  about  the 
theatres,  although  they  occupy  me  very  much.  How 
plain  are  the  symptoms  of  bitterness  and  excitement 
even  in  the  most  insignificant  farce ;  how  invariably 
everything  bears  a  reference  to  politics ;  how  com- 
pletely what  is  called  the  Romantic  School  has 
infected  all  the  Parisians,  for  they  think  of  nothing 
on  the  stage  now  but  the  plague,  the  gallows,  the 
devil,  etc.,  one  striving  to  outstrip  the  other  in 
horrors,  and  in  liberalism  ;  in  the  midst  of  these 
mix&res  and  fooleries,  how  charming  is  a  talent  like 
that  of  Leontine  Fay,  who  is  the  perfection  of  grace 
and  fascination,  and  remains  unsullied  by  the  ab- 
surdities she  is  compelled  to  utter  and  to  act.  How 
strange  all  these  contrasts  are  !  but  this  I  reserve 
for  future  discussion.  FELIX. 


Paris,  January  2ist,  1832. 

In  every  letter  of  yours  I  receive  a  little  hit,  be- 
cause my  answers  are  not  very  punctual,  ami  so  I 
reply  without  delay  to  your  questions,  dear  Fanny, 
with  regard  to  the  new  works  that  I  am  about  to 
publish. 


332  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  the  octett  and  the  quintet! 
might  make  a  very  good  appearance  among  my 
works,  being  in  fact  better  than  many  compositions 
that  already  figure  there.  As  the  publication  of 
these  pieces  costs  me  nothing,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
I  derive  profit  from  them,  and  not  wishing  to  confuse 
their  chronological  order,  my  idea  is  to  publish  the 
following  pieces  at  Easter: — quintett  and  octett 
( the  latter  also  arranged  as  a  duet),  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,"  seven  songs  without  words,  six 
songs  with  words  ;  on  my  return  to  Germany,  six 
pieces  of  sacred  music,  and  finally,  if  I  can  get 
any  one  to  print  it,  and  to  pay  for  it,  the  symphony 
in  D  minor.  As  soon  as  I  have  performed  "  Meeres- 
stille  "  at  my  concert  in  Berlin,  it  will  also  appear. 
I  cannot  however  bring  out  "The  Hebrides"  here, 
because,  as  I  wrote  to  you  at  the  time,  I  do  not 
consider  it  finished ;  the  middle  movement  forte  in 
D  major  is  very  stupid,  and  the  whole  modulations 
savour  more  of  counterpoint,  than  of  train  oil  and 
seagulls  and  salt  fish — and  it  ought  to  be  exactly 
the  reverse.  I  like  the  piece  too  well  to  allow  it  to 
be  performed  in  an  imperfect  state,  and  I  hope 
soon  to  be  able  to  work  at  it,  and  to  have  it  ready 
for  England,  and  the  Michaelmas  fair  at  Leipzig. 

You  inquire  also  why  I  do  not  compose  the  Italian 
symphony  in  A  major.  Because  I  am  composing  the 
Saxon  overture  in  A  minor,  which  is  to  precede  the 
"  "Walpnrgis  Night,"  that  the  work  may  be  played 
with  all  due  honour  at  the  said  Berlin  concert,  and 
elsewhere. 


ENJOYMENT    OF    LIFE    AT    PARIS.  333 

You  wish  me  to  remove  to  the  Marais.  and  to 
write  the  whole  day.  My  dear  child,  that  would 
never  do ;  I  have,  at  the  most,  only  the  prospect  of 
three  mouths  to  see  Paris,  so  I  must  throw  myself 
into  the  stream;  indeed,  this  is  why  I  came;  every- 
thing here  is  too  bright,  and  too  attractive  to  be 
neglected;  it  rounds  off  my  pleasant  travelling 
reminiscences,  and  forms  a  fine  colossal  key-stone, 
and  so  I  consider  that  to  see  Paris  is  at  this  moment 
my  chief  vocation.  The  publishers  too  are  standing 
on  each  side  of  me  like  veritable  Satans,  demanding 
music  for  the  piano,  and  offering  to  pay  for  it.  By 
Heavens!  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  be  able  to 
withstand  this,  or  write  some  kind  of  trio  ;  for  I  hope 
you  believe  me  to  be  superior  to  the  temptation  of  a 
pot-pourri ;  but  I  should  like  to  compose  a  couple 
of  good  trios. 

On  Thursday  the  first  rehearsal  of  my  overture 
takes  place,  which  is  to  be  performed  in  the  second 
concert  at  the  "  Conservatoire."  In  the  third  my 
symphony  in  I)  minor  is  to  follow.  Ilabeneck  talks 
of  seven  or  eight  rehearsals,  which  will  be  very  wel- 
come to  me.  Moreover  I  am  also  to  play  something 
at  Krard's  concert ;  so  I  shall  play  my  Munich  con- 
certo, but  J  must  first  practise  it  well.  Then,  a  note 
is  lying  beside  me,  "  Le  President  du  Conseil,  Min- 
istre  de  1'Interieur,  et  Madame  Casimir  Perier 
prient.  "  etc.,  on  Monday  evening  to  a  ball ;  this 
evening  there  is  to  be  music  at  Ilabeneck's  ;  to-mor- 
row at  Schlesinger's  ;  Tuesday,  the  first  public  soiree 
at  Baillot's ;  ou  Wednesday,  Hiller  plays  his  Con- 


334  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

certo  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  this  alivays  lasts  till 
past  midnight.  Let  those  who  like  it,  lead  a  solitary 
life  !  these  are  all  things  that  cannot  be  refused.  So 
when  am  I  to  compose  ?  In  the  forenoon  ?  Yester- 
day, first  ]  Filler  came,  then  Kalkbrcnner.  then  Ilabe- 
neck.  The  day  before  that,  came  Baillot,  Eichthal_ 
and  Rodrigucs.  Perhaps  very  early  in  the  morning? 
Well,  I  do  compose  then — so  you  are  confuted ! 

P—  -  was  with  me  yesterday,  talking  St.  Simo- 
nienism,  and  either  from  a  conviction  of  my  stupid- 
ity, or  my  shrewdness,  he  made  me  disclosures  which 
shocked  me  so  much,  that  I  resolved  never  again  to 
go  either  to  him  or  to  his  confederates.  Early  this 
morning  Ililler  rushed  in,  and  told  me  he  had  just 
witnessed  the  arrest  of  the  St.  Simoniens.  He  wished 
to  hear  their  orations;  but  the  Fathers  did  not 
come.  All  of  a  sudden  soldiers  made  their  way  in, 
and  requested  those  present  to  disperse  as  quickly 
as  possible,  inasmuch  as  M.  Enfant  in  and  the  others 
had  been  arrested  in  the  Rue  Monsigny.  A  party 
of  National  Guards  arc  placed  in  the  street,  and 
other  soldiers  marched  up  there;  everything  is 
sealed  up,  and  now  the  procts  will  begin.  My  B 
minor  quartett,  which  is  lying  in  the  Rue  Monsigny, 
is  also  sealed  up.  The  adagio  alone  is  in  the  style 
of  the  "juste  Milieu,"  all  the  other  parts  mou ce- 
ment. I  suppose  I  shall  eventually  be  obliged  to 
play  it  before  a  jury. 

I  was  lately  standing  beside  the  Abb6  Bardin  at 
a  large  party,  listening  to  the  performance  of  my 
quartett  in  A  minor.  At  the  last  movement  my 


DEATH    OF    A    FRIEXD.  335 

neighbour  pulled  my  coat,  and  said :  "  II  a  cela  dana 
une  de  ses  sinfonies."  "  Qui?"  said  I,  rather  embar- 
rassed. "  Beethoven,  1'auteur  de  ce  quatuor,"  said 
he,  with  a  consequential  air.  This  was  a  very 
doubtful  compliment!  but  is  it  not  famous  that  my 
quartett  should  be  played  in  the  classes  of  the 
Conservatoire,  and  that  the  pupils  there  are  prac- 
tising off  their  fingers  to  play  '•  1st  es  wahr  ?" 

I  have  just  come  from  St.  Sulpice,  where  the 
organist  showed  off  his  organ  to  me  ;  it  sounded 
like  a  full  chorus  of  old  women's  voices  ;  but  they 
maintain  that  it  is  the  finest  organ  in  Europe  if  it 
were  only  put  into  proper  order,  which  would  cost 
thirty  thousand  francs.  The  effect  of  the  canto 
fermo,  accompanied  by  a  serpent,  those  who  have 
not  heard  it  could  scarcely  conceive,  and  clumsy 
bells  are  ringing  all  the  time. 

The  post  is  going,  so  I  must  conclude  my  gossip, 
or  I  might  go  on  in  this  manner  till  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  I  have  not  yet  told  you  that  Bach's 
"  Passion"  is  announced  for  performance  in  London, 
at  Easter,  in  the  Italian  Opera  House. — Yours, 

FELIX. 


Paris,  February  4th,  1832. 

You  will.  I  am  sure,  excuse  my  writing  you  only 
a  few  words  to-day  :  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I 
heard  of  my  irreparable  loss.*  Many  hopes,  and  a 

*  The  d«ath  of  his  fr  end  Edwird  Ritz,  the  violin  player. 


336 

pleasant  bright  period  of  my  life  have  departed  with 
him.  and  I  never  again  can  feel  so  happy.  1  must 
now  set  about  forming  new  plans,  and  building  fresh 
castles  in  the  air  ;  the  former  ones  are  irrevocably 
gone,  for  he  was  interwoven  with  them  all.  1  shall 
never  be  able  to  think  of  my  boyish  days,  nor  of  the 
ensuing  ones,  without  conaecting  him  with  them,  and 
I  had  hoped,  till  no\v,  that  it  might  be  the  same  for 
the  future.  1  must  endeavour  to  inure  myself  to 
this,  but  I  can  recall  no  one  thing  without  being 
reminded  of  him  ;  I  shall  never  hear  music,  or  write 
it,  without  thinking  of  him  ;  all  this  makes  the  rend- 
ing asunder  of  such  a  tie  doubly  distressing.  The 
former  epoch  has  now  wholly  passed  away,  but  not 
only  do  I  lose  that,  but  also  the  man  I  so  sincerely 
loved.  If  I  never  had  any  especial  reason  for  loving 
him.  or  if  I  no  longer  had  such  reasons,  I  must 
have  loved  him  all  the  same,  even  without  a  reason, 
lie  loved  me  too,  and  the  knowledge  that  there  was 
such  a  man  in  the  world — one  on  whom  yon  could 
repose,  and  -who  lived  to  love  you,  and  whose  wishes 
and  aims  were  identical  with  your  own— this  is  all 
over :  it  is  the  most  severe  blow  I  have  ever  re- 
ceived, and  never  can  I  forget  him. 

This  was  the  celebration  of  my  birthday.  AYhcn 
I  was  listening  to  Baillot  on  Tuesday,  and  said  to 
Ililler  that,  I  only  knew  one  man  who  could  play  the 

music  I  loved  for  me,  L was  standing  beside  me, 

and  knew  what  had  happened,  but  did  not  give  me 
the  letter,  lie  was  not  aware  indeed  that  yesterday 
was  my  birthday,  but  he  broke  it  to  me  by  degrees 


DKAT71    OF     A     FPTEXD.  337 

yest"rduv  morning,  and  then  I  recalled  previous 
anniversaries,  and  took  a  rcvic\v  of  the  past,  as  cverj> 
one  should  on  hi:;  birthday;  1  remembered  how  inva- 
riably ou  this  day  he  arrived  with  some  special  gift 
which  he  had  Ir.ng  thought  of.  and  which  was  always 
as  pleasing  and  agreeable  and  welcome  as  himself. 
TLe  day  was  a  melancholy  one  to  me  :  I  could  neither 
do  anything,  nor  think  of  anything,  but  the  one 
subject. 

To-day  I  have  compelled  myself  to  work,  and  suc- 
ceeded. My  oveiture  in  A  minor  is  finished.  I  thiuk 
of  writing  some  pieces  here,  which  will  be  well  re- 
munerated. 

1  beg  yon  will  tell  me  every  particular  about  him, 
and  every  detail,  no  matter  how  trilling:  it  will  be  a 
comfort  to  me  to  hear  of  him  once  more.  The  octctt 
parts,  so  neatly  copied  by  him,  are  lying  before  me 
at  this  moment,  and  remind  me  of  him.  I  hope 
shortly  to  recover  my  usual  equanimity,  and  to  be 
able  to  write  to  you  in  better  spirits  and  more  at 
length.  A  new  chapter  in  my  life  has  begun,  but 
o-s  vet  it  has  no  title.  Your  FELIX. 


Paris,  February  I  3th,  1832. 

I  am  now  leading  a  quiet,  pleasant  life  here; 
neither  my  present  frame  of  mind,  nor  the  pleasures 
of  society,  tempt  me  to  enter  into  gaiety.  Here,  and 
indeed  everywhere  else,  society  is  uninteresting,  and 
not  improving,  aucl  owing  to  the  lato  hours,  mouopo- 
29 


338  MKXDELSSOHX'S    LETTERS. 

lizing  a  great  dual  of  time.  I  do  not  refuse,  however, 
when  there  is  to  be  good  music.  I  will  write  all 
particulars  to  Zelter  of  the  first  concert  in  the  Con- 
servatoire. The  performers  there  play  quite  admira- 
bly, and  in  so  finished  a  style,  that  it  is  indeed  a 
pleasure  to  hear  them  ;  they  delight  in  it  themselves, 
and  each  takes  the  greatest  possible  trouble;  the 
leader  is  an  energetic,  experienced  musician,  so  they 
cannot  fail  to  go  well  together. 

To-morrow  my  A  minor  quartett  is  to  be  per- 
formed in  public.  (Jherubini  says  of  Beethoven's 
later  music,  "  C-a  me  fait  6ternuciy"  and  so  I  think  it 
probable  that  the  whole  public  will  sneeze  to-morrow. 
The  performers  are  Baillot,  Sauzay,  Urban,  and 
Norblin — the  best  here. 

My  overture  in  A  minor  is  completed  ;  it  represents 
bad  weather.  A  few  days  ago  I  finished  an  intro- 
duction, where  it  thaws,  and  spring  arrives;  I  have 
counted  the  sheets  of  the  "  Walpurgis  Night,"  re- 
vised the  seven  numbers  a  little,  and  then  boldly 
written  underneath — Milan,  July;  Paris,  February. 
I  think  it  will  please  you.  I  must  now  write  an 
adagio  for  my  quintett  without  delay  ;  the  performers 
are  calling  loudly  for  one,  and  they  are  right. 

T  do  wish  you  could  hear  a  rehearsal  of  my  '•Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream"  at  the  Conservatoire,  where 
they  play  it  most  beautifully.  It  is  not  yet  certain 
whether  it  will  be  ready  by  next  Sunday;  there  are 
to  be  two  more  rehearsals  before  then,  but  as  yet  it 
has  only  been  twice  played  over.  I  think  however 
that  it  will  do,  and  I  would  rather  it  was  given  on 


VISIT    TO    THE    THKATRE.  339 

Sunday  than  at  the  third  concert,  because  I  am  to 
play  on  behalf  of  the  poor  on  the  26th  (something  of 
"Weber's),  and  on  the  27th  at  Erard's  concert  (my 
Munich  Concerto),  and  at  other  places,  and  I  sh  iud 
like  my  composition  to  appear  first  at  the  "  Con- 
servatoire." I  am  also  to  play  there,  and  the  members 
are  anxious  that  1  should  give  them  a  Sonata  of 
Beethoven's  ;  it  may  seem  bold,  but  I  prefer  his  Con- 
certo in  (jr  major,  which  is  quite  unknown  here. 

I  louk  forward  with  the  utmost  delight  to  the 
symphony  in  ])  minor,  which  is  to  be  rehearsed  next 
week  ;  1  certainly  never  dreamt  that  I  should  hear  it 
in  Paris  for  the  fir  ft  time. 

I  often  visit  the  theatre,  where  I  see  a  great  dis- 
play of  wit  and  talent,  but  a  degree  of  immorality 
that  almost  exceeds  belief.  It  is  supposed  that  no 
lady  can  go  to  the  "  C-ymnase" — still  they  do  go. 
Depict  me  to  yourself  as  reading  "  Notre  Dame," 
dining  with  one  or  other  of  my  acquaintances  every 
day.  and  taking  advantage  of  the  lovely  bright 
spring  weather  after  three  o'clock,  to  take  a  walk, 
and  to  pay  a  few  visits,  and  to  look  at  the  gaily- 
dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  splendid  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries — then  you  will  have  my  day  in  Paris. 
Adieu.  FELIX. 


Paris,  February  zist,  1832. 

Almost  every  letter  that  I  receive  from  you  now 
announces  some  sad  loss.     Yesterday  J  got  the  one 


340  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

in  which  you  tell  me  about  poor  U ,  whom  1 

shall  no  longer  find  with  you ;  so  this  is  not  a  time 
for  idle  talk  ;  I  feel  that  I  must  work,  and  strive  to 
make  progress. 

1  have  composed  a  grand  adagio  as  an  intermezzo 
for  the  quintett.  It  is  called  "  Xachruf,"  and  it 
occurred  to  rne,  as  I  had  to  compose  something  for 
Baillot,  who  plays  so  beautifully,  and  is  so  kindly 
disposed  towards  me,  and  who  wishes  to  perform  it 
in  public;  and  yet  he  is  only  a  recent  acquaintance. 
Two  days  ago  my  overture  to  the  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream"  was  given  for  the  first  time  at  a 
concert  in  the  Conservatoire.  It  caused  me  great 
pleasure,  for  it  went  admirably,  and  seemed  also  to 
please  the  audience.  It  is  to  be  repeated  at  one  of 
the  ensuing  concerts,  and  my  symphony,  which  has 
been  rather  delayed  on  this  account,  is  to  be  re- 
hearsed on  Friday  or  Saturday.  In  the  fourth  or 
fifth  concert,  I  am  to  play  Beethoven's  Concerto  in 
G  major. 

The  musicians  are  all  amazement  at  the  honour* 
conferred  on  me  by  the  Conservatoire.  They  played 
my  A  minor  quartett  wonderfully  last  Tuesday  :  with 
such  fire  and  precision,  that  it  was  delightful  to 
listen  to  them,  and  as  I  can  never  again  hear  Ritz, 
I  shall  probably  never  hear  it  better  given.  It  ap- 
peared to  make  a  great  impression  on  the  audience, 
and  at  the  scherzo  they  were  quite  uproarious. 

It  is  now  high  time,  dear  father,  to  write,  you  a 
few  words  with  regard  to  my  travelling  plans,  and 
on  this  occasion  in  a  more  serious  strain  than  usual, 


HAPPY    RF.SU.   XS.  341 

for  many  reasons.  I  must  first,  in  taking  a  general 
view  of  the  post,  refer  to  what  you  designed  to  be 
the  chief  object  of  my  journey  ;  desiring  me  strictly 
to  adhere  to  it.  I  was  closely  to  examine  the 
various  countries.  an:l  to  fix  on  the  one  where  I 
wished  to  live  and  to  work  ;  I  was  further  to  make 
known  my  name  and  capabilities,  in  order  that  the 
people,  among  whom  I  resolved  to  settle,  should 
receive  me  well,  and  not  be  wholly  ignorant  of  my 
career  ;  and,  finally,  I  was  to  take  advantage  of  my 
own  good  fortune,  and  your  kindness,  to  press 
forward  in  my  subsequent  efforts.  It  is  a  happy 
feeiing  to  be  able  to  say,  that  I  believe  this  has 
been  the  case. 

Always  excepting  those  mistakes  which  are  not 
discovered  till  too  late,  I  think  I  have  fulfilled  the 
appointed  object.  People  now  know  that  I  exist, 
and  that  I  have  a  purpose,  and  any  talent  that  I 
display,  they  are  ready  to  approve  and  to  accept. 
They  have  made  advances  to  me  here,  and  proposed 
to  take  my  music,  which  they  seldom  do  ;  as  all  the 
others,  even  Onslow,  have  been  obliged  to  fffzr  their 
compositions.  The  London  Philharmonic  have  re- 
quested me  to  perform  something  new  of  my  own 
there  on  the  10th  of  March.  I  also  got  the  com- 
mission from  Munich  without  taking  any  step  what- 
ever to  obtain  it,  and  indeed  not  till  after  my  concert. 
It  is  my  intention  to  give  a  concert  here  ( if  possible) 
and  certainly  in  London  in  April,  if  the  cholera 
does  not  prevent  my  going  there ;  and  this  on  my 
own  account,  in  order  to  make  money;  I  hope, 
29* 


342  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

therefore,  I  may  say  that  I  have  also  fulfilled  this 
part  of  your  wish — that  I  should  make  myself  known 
to  the  public  before  returning  to  yoa. 

Your  injunction,  too,  to  make  choice  of  the  country 
that  I  preferred  to  live  in,  I  have  equally  performed, 
at  least  in  a  general  point  of  view.  That  country  is 
Germany.  This  is  a  point  on  which  I  have  now 
quite  made  up  my  mind.  I  cannot  yet,  however, 
decide  on  the  particular  city,  for  the  most  important 
of  all,  which  for  various  reasons  has  so  many  attrac- 
tions for  me.  I  have  not  yet  thought  of  in  this  light  — 
I  allude  to  Berlin.  On  my  return,  therefore.  I  must 
ascertain  whether  I  can  remain  and  establish  myself 
there,  according  to  my  views  and  wishes,  after  having 
seen  and  enjoyed  other  places. 

This  is  also  why  I  do  not  endeavour  to  get  the 
commission  for  an  opera  here.  If  I  compose  really 
good  music,  which  in  these  days  is  indispensable,  it 
will  both  be  understood  and  valued  in  Germany. 
(This  has  been  the  case  with  all  the  good  operas 
there.)  If  I  compose  indifferent  music,  it  will  be 
quickly  forgotten  in  Germany,  but  here  it  would 
be  often  performed  and  extolled,  and  sent  to  Ger- 
many, and  given  there  on  the  authority  of  Paris,  as 
we  daily  see.  But  1  do  not  choose  this  ;  and  if  I  am 
not  capable  of  composing  good  music,  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  praised  for  it.  So  I  shall  first  try  Ger- 
many :  and  if  things  go  so  badly  that  I  can  no  longer 
live  there.  I  can  then  have  recourse  to  some  foreign 
country.  Besides,  few  German  theatres  are  so  bad 
or  in  so  dilapidated  a  condition  as  the  Opera,  Comique 


A    BIRTHDAY    LETTER.  343 

hero.  Ono  bankruptcy  succeeds  another.  When 
Clicrubini  is  asked  why  he  does  not  allow  his  operas 
to  be  -riven  there,  lie  replies,  "  Je  ne  sais  pas  donner 
des  operas,  sans  chocur,  sans  orchestre.  sans  chan- 
teurs.  et  suns  decorations."  The  Grand  Opera  has 
bespoken  operas  for  years  to  come,  so  there  is  no 
chance  of  anything  being  accepted  by  it  for  the 
next  three  or  four  years. 

hi  the  meantime  therefore  I  intend  to  return  to 
you  to  write  my  "Tempest,"  and  to  see  how  it  suc- 
ceeds. The  plan,  therefore,  dear  father,  that  I 
wish  to  lav  before  yon  is  this — to  remain  here  till 
the  end  of  .March,  or  the  beginning  of  April,  (the 
invitation  to  the  Philharmonic  for  the  10th  of  March, 
t  have  of  coarse  declined,  or  rather  postponed.)  then 
to  go  to  London  for  a  couple  of  months.  If  the 
Rhenish  musical  festival  takes  place,  to  which  I  am 
summoned,  I  shall  go  to  Dlisseldorf ;  and  if  not,  re- 
turn direct  to  you  by  the  shortest  road,  and  be  by 
your  side  in  the  garden  soon  after  Whitsunday. 
Farewell !  FELIX. 


Paris,  March  I5th,  1832. 
Dear  Mother, 


344  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

This  is  the  15th  of  March,  1832.  May  every  hap. 
pincss  and  good  attend  you  on  this  day.  You  prefer 
receiuiiKj  my  letter  on  your  birthday,  to  its  being 
•written  on  the  day  itself:  but  forgive  me  for  saying 
that  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  this.  My  father 
said  that  no  one  could  tell  what  might  occur  subse- 
quently, therefore  the  letter  ought  to  arrive  on  the 
anniversary  of  the  day;  but  then  I  have  this  feeling 
in  double  m'easure,  as  I  neither  in  that  case  know 
what  is  to  occur  to  y/a  on  that  day,  nor  to  my- 
self; but  if  your  birthday  be  actually  arrived,  then 
I  almost  feel  as  if  1  were  beside  you,  though  you 
cannot  hear  my  congratulations;  but  I  can  then 
send  them  to  you,  without  any  other  solicitude  than 
that  of  absence.  This  too  will  soon  be  over,  please 
God.  May  lie  preserve  you,  and  all  at  home,  happily 
to  me ! 

I  have  now  begun  to  throw  myself  in  right  earnest 
into  a  musical  life,  and  as  I  know  this  must  be  satis- 
factory to  you,  I  will  write  some  details;  for  a  letter 
ar.cl  a  sketch-book  that  I  wished  to  send  you  some 
days  ago  byMortier's  aide-de-camp,  are  still  •waiting. 
like  all  Paris,  for  the  departure  of  the  Marshal, 
which  does  not  however  take  place.  If  the  letter 
and  the  book  do  eventually  reach  you  through  this 
man,  pray  give  a  kind  reception  to  the  whole  con- 
signment, but  especially  to  the  man  (Count  I'cr- 
thuis),  for  he  is  one  of  the  most  friendly  and  amiable 
persons  1  ever  met  with. 

1  had  told  you  in  that  letter,  that  I  am  to  play 
Beethoven's  Uoucerto  in  G  major  two  days  hence, 


A    BIRTHDAY    LETTER.  345 

in  the  Conservatoire,  and  that  the  whole  Court  are 
to  be  present  for  the  first  time  at  the  concert. 

K is  read}'  to  poison  me  from  envy;  he  at  first 

tried  by  a  thousand  intrigues  to  prevent  my  playing 
altogether,  and  when  he  heard  that  the  Queen  was 
actually  coming,  he  did  everything  in  his  power  tc 
get  me  out  of  the  way.  Happily  all  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  Conservatoire,  the  all-powerful  Habeneck 
in  particular,  are  my  faithful  allies,  and  so  he  signally 
failed.  lie  is  the  only  musician  here  who  acts  un- 
kindly and  hypocritically  towards  me  ;  and  though  I 
never  placed  much  confidence  in  him,  still  it  is  always 
a  very  painful  sensation  to  know  that  you  are  in  the 
society  of  a  person  who  hates  you,  but  is  careful  not 
to  show  it. 

The  iyth. 

I  could  not  finish  this  letter,  because  during  the 
last  few  days  the  incessant  music  I  told  you  of,  has 
been  so  overwhelming,  that  I  really  scarcely  knew 
which  way  to  turn.  A  mere  catalogue  therefore  of 
all  I  have  done,  and  have  still  to  do,  must  suffice  for 
to-day,  and  at  the  same  time  plead  my  excuse. 

I  have  just  come  back  from  a  rehearsal  at  the 
Conservatoire.  We  rehearsed  steadily ;  twice  yes- 
terday, and  to-day  almost  everything  repeated,  but 
now  all  goes  swimmingly.  If  the  audience  to-mor- 
row are  only  half  as  enchanted  as  the  orchestra  to- 
day, we  shall  do  well ;  for  they  shouted  loudly  for 
the  adagio  da  capo,  and  Habeneck  made  them  a 
little  speech,  to  point  out  to  them  that  at  the  close 
there  Tva=  a  solo  bar,  which  they  must  be  so  good  aa 


340  MKXDELSSOriX'S    LETTERS. 

to  \vai1  for.  You  would  lie  gratified  to  see  all  the 
little  kindnesses  and  courtesies  the  latter  shows  me. 
At  the  end  of  each  movement  of  the  symphony,  lie 
asks  me  if  there  is  anything  I  do  not  approve  of,  so 
1  have  been  able  for  the  first  time,  to  introduce  into 
the  French  orchestra  some  favourite  nuances  of 
my  own. 

After  the  rehearsal  Baillot  played  my  octctt  in  his 
class,  and  if  any  man  in  the  world  can  play  it,  he  is 
the  man.  His  performance  was  liner  than  I  ever 
heard  it,  and  so  was  that  of  Urhan,  Xorblin,  and  the 
others,  who  all  attacked  the  piece  with  the  most 
ardent  energy  and  spirit. 

Besides  all  this,  1  must  finish  the  arrangement  of 
the  overture  and  the  octctt,  and  revise  the  quintett, 
as  Simrock  has  bought  it.  I  must  write  out 
"Lieder,"  and  enjoy  the  author's  delight  of  working 
up  my  H  minor  quartett.  for  it  is  to  be  brought  out 
here  by  two  different  publishers,  who  have  requested 
me  to  make  some  alterations  before  it  is  published. 
Finally,  I  have  soirees  every  evening.  To-night 
Bohrer's ;  to-morrow  a  fete,  with  all  the  violin 
gamins  of  the  Conservatoire  ;  next  clay,  Rothschild  ; 
Tuesday,  the  Societe.  des  Beaux-Arts;  AVednesday 
my  octett  at  the  Abbe  Bardin's  ;  Thursday  my  octett 
at  Madame  Kiene's ;  Friday,  a  concert  at  Erard's ; 
Sunday,  a  concert  at  Leo's;  and  lastly,  on  Monday 
- — laugh  if  you  choose — my  octett  is  to  be  performed 
in  a  church,  at  a  funeral  Mass  in  commemoration  of 
Beethoven.  This  is  the  strangest  thing  the  world 
ever  yet  saw,  but  I  could  not  refuse,  and  I  in  some 


GOETHE'S  DEATH.  347 

degree  enjoy  the  thoughts  of  being  present,  when 
Low  Mass  is  read  during  the  scherzo.  1  can 
scarcely  imagine  anything  more  absurd  than  a 
priest  at  the  altar  and  my  scherzo  going  on.  It  is 
like  travelling  incognito.  Last  of  all  Baillot  gives 
a  grand  concert  on  the  7th  of  April,  and  so  I  have 
promised  him  to  remain  here  till  then,  and  to  play 
a  Concerto  of  Mozart's  for  him,  and  some  other 
piece. 

On  the  8th  I  take  my  place  in  the  diligence,  and 
set  off  to  London,  but  before  doing  so  I  shall  have 
heard  my  symphony  in  the  Conservatoire,  and  sold 
various  pieces,  and  shall  leave  this,  rejoicing  in  the 
friendly  reception  I  have  met  with  from  the  musi- 
cians here.— Farewell !  FEUX. 


Paris,  March    3ist,  1832. 

Pray  forgive  my  long  silence,  but  1  had  nothing 
cheering  to  communicate,  and  am  always  very  un- 
willing to  write  gloomy  letters.  Indeed,  this  being 
the  case,  I  had  better  still  have  remained  silent, 
for  I  am  in  anything  but  a  gay  mood.  But  now 
that  we  have  the  spectre  here,*  I  mean  to  write  to 
you  regularly,  that  you  may  know  that  I  am  well, 
and  pursuing  my  work. 

The  sad  news  of  Goethe's  loss  makes  me  feel  pocr 
indeed  !  AVhat  a  blow  to  the  country!  It  is  another 
of  those  mournful  even's  connected  with  my  stay 

*  Tho  cholera. 


348  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

here,  which  will  always  recur  to  my  mind  at  the 
very  mime  of  Paris  :  and  not  all  the  kindness  I  have 
received,  nor  the  tumult  and  excitement,  nor  the 
life  and  gaiety  here, can  ever  efface  this  impression. 
May  it  please  God  to  preserve  me  from  still  worse 
tidings,  and  grant  us  all  a  happy  meeting;  this  is 
the  chief  thing  ! 

Various  circumstances  have  induced  me  to  delay 
my  departure  from  here  for  at  least  a  fortnight, — 
that  is,  till  the  middle  of  April ;  and  the  idea  of  my 
concert  has  begun  to  revive  in  my  mind  ;  I  mean  to 
accomplish  it  too,  if  the  cholera  does  not  deter 
people  from  musical,  or  any  other  kind  of  r6unions. 
We  shall  know  this  in  the  course  of  a  week,  and  iu 
any  case  I  must  remain  here  till  then.  I  believe 
however  that  everything  will  go  on  in  the  usual 
regular  course,  and  "Figaro1'  prove  to  be  in  the 
right,  who  wrote  an  article  called  uEnfonc6  le 
cholera,"  in  which  he  says  that  Paris  is  the  grave  of 
all  reputations,  for  no  one  there  ever  admired  any- 
thing; yawning  at  Paganini  (he  does  not  seem  to 
please  much  this  time),  and  not  even  looking  round 
in  the  street  at  an  Emperor  or  a  Dey ;  so  possibly 
this  malady  might  also  lose  its  formidable  reputation 
there. 

Count  Pcrthuis  has  no  doubt  told  you  of  my 
playing  at  the  Conservatoire.  The  French  say  that 
it  was  un  beau  sitcccs,  and  the  audience  were  pleased. 
The  Queen,  too,  sent  me  all  sorts  of  hue  compli- 
ments on  the  subject.  On  Saturday  I  am  again  to 
play  twice  in  public.  My  octett,  in  church  on  Mon- 


LETTER    FROM    LONDON.  349 

day  last,  exceeded  in  absurdity  anything  the  world 
ever  saw  or  heard  of.  While  the  priest  was  officia- 
ting at  the  altar  during  the  scherzo,  it  really  sounded 
like  "  Fliegenschnauz  und  Mlickennas,  verfluchte 
Dilettanten."  The  people  however  considered  it 
very  fine  sacred  music. 

I  am  indeed  delighted,  dear  Father,  that  my  quar- 
tett  in  B  minor  pleases  you;  it  is  a  favourite  of 
mice,  and  1  like  to  play  it,  although  the  adagio  is 
much  too  cloying;  still,  the  scherzo  that  follows  has 
all  the  more  effect.  I  can  see  that  you  seem  rather 
inclined  to  deride  my  A  minor  quartett,  when  you 
pay  that  there  is  a  piece  of  instrumental  music  which 
has  made  you  rack  your  brains  to  discover  the  corn- 
poser's  thoughts;  when,  in  fact,  he  probably  had  no 
thoughts  at  all.  1  must  defend  the  work,  for  I  love 
it :  but  it  certainly  depends  very  much  on  the  way 
in  which  it  is  executed,  and  one  single  musician  who 
could  perform  it  with  zeal  and  sympathy,  as  Taubert 
did,  would  make  a  vast  difference. — Your 

FELIX. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  FROM  LONDON. 

London,  April  lyth,  1831. 

I  wish  I  could  only  describe  how  happy  I  feel  to 
be  here  once  more  ;  how  much  I  like  everything, 
and  how  gratified  I  am  by  the  kindness  of  old 
friends ;  but  as  it  is  all  going  on  at  this  moment,  I 

must  be  brief  for  to-day. 

30 


350  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

I  have  also  a  number  of  people  to  seek  out  whom 
I  have  not  yet  seen,  whilst  1  have  been  living  with 
Klingeinann,  Rosen,  and  Moscheles,  in  as  close  in- 
timacy as  if  we  had  never  been  parted.  They  form 
the  nucleus  of  my  present  sojourn  ;  we  see  each 
other  every  day;  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  be 
once  more  with  good,  earnest  men,  and  true  friends, 
with  whom  I  do  not  require  to  be  on  my  guard,  nor 
fo  study  them  either.  Moscheles  and  his  wife  show 
me  a  degree  of  touching  kindness,  which  I  value  the 
more  as  my  regard  for  them  increases ;  and  then  the 
feeling  of  restored  health,  as  if  I  lived  afresh,  and 
had  come  anew  into  this  world — all  these  are  com- 
bined.* 

May  i  ith. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  happiness  of  these 
first  weeks  here.  As  from  time  to  time  every  evil 
seems  to  accumulate,  as  it  did  during  my  winter  in 
Paris,  where  1  lost  some  of  my  most  beloved  fri'uds, 
and  never  felt  at  home,  and  at  last  became  very  ill ; 
so  the  reverse  sometimes  occurs,  and  thus  it  is  in 
this  charming  country,  where  1  am  once  more 
amongst  friends,  and  am  well,  and  among  well- 
wishers,  and  enjoy  in  the  fullest  measure  the  sensa- 
tion of  returning  health.  Moreover  it  is  warm,  the 
lilacs  are  in  bloom,  and  music  is  going  on :  only 
imagine  how  pleasant  all  this  is  ! 

I  must  really  describe    one    happy  morning   last 


*  Felix  Mendelssohn  had  an  attack  of  cholera  during  the  last 
wrecks  of  his  ntay  iu  Paris. 


M.    ZEI/TER.  351 

week  :  of  all  the  flattering  demonstrations  I  have 
hitherto  received,  it  is  the  one  which  has  most 
touched  and  affect ed  me.  and  perhaps  the  only  one 
which  I  shall  always  recall  with  fresh  pleasure. 
There  was  a  rehearsal  last  Saturday  at  the  Philhar- 
monic, where  however  nothing  of  mine  was  given, 
my  overture  not  being  yet  written  out.  After  "  Bee- 
thoven's Pastoral  Symphony."  during  which  1  was 
in  a  box,  I  wished  to  go  into  the  room  to  talk  to 
some  old  friends :  scarcely,  however,  had  I  gone 
down  below,  when  one  of  the  orchestra  called  out, 
'•There  is  .Mendelssohn!''  on  which  they  all  began 
shouting,  and  clapping  their  hands  to  such  a  degree, 
that  for  a  time  1  really  did  not  know  what  to  do; 
and  when  this  was  over,  another  called  out  '•  Wel- 
come to  him!"  on  which  the  same  uproar  recom- 
menced, and  1  was  obliged  to  cross  the  room,  and  to 
clamber  into  the  orchestra  and  return  thanks. 

Never  can  1  forget  it,  for  it  was  more  precious  to 
me  than  any  distinction,  as  it  showed  me  that  the 
musicians  loved  me,  and  rejoiced  at  my  coming,  and 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  glad  feeling  this  was. 


May  1 8th.    - 
Dear  Father, 

I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  Oth  ;  God  grant 
that  Zelter  may  by  this  time  be  safe,  and  out  of 
danger  !  You  say  indeed  that  he  already  is  so,  but 


3.")2  MKXDEI.SSOHX  S    LETTEttS. 

I  shall  anxiously  expect  your  next  letter,  to  see  the 
news  of  his  recovery  confirmed.  1  have  dreaded 
this  ever  since  Goethe's  death,  but  when  it  actually 
occurs,  it  is  a  very  different  thing.  May  Heaven 
avert  it  ! 

Pray  tell  me  also  what  you  mean  by  saying  "there 
is  no  doubt  that  Zelter  both  wishes,  and  requires,  to 
have  you  with  him.  because!,  at  all  events  for  the 
present,  it  is  quite  impossible  for  him  to  carry  on 
the  Academy,  whence  it  is  evident  that,  if  you  do  not 
undertake  it,  another  must."  Has  Zelter  expressed 
this  wish  to  you.  or  do  you  only  imagine  that  he  en- 
tertains it?  If  the  former  were  the  case.  1  would 
instantly,  on  receiving  your  reply,  write  to  Zelter, 
and  offer  him  every  service  in  my  power,  of  every 
kind,  and  try  to  relieve  him  from  all  his  labours,  for 
as  long  a  period  as  he  desired  ;  and  this  it  certainly 
would  l)e  my  dut  v  to  do. 

1  intended  to  have  written  to  Lichtenstein  before 
my  return,  about  the  proposal  formerly  made  to  me,* 
but  of  course  1  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  doing 
so  at  present  ;  for  on  no  account  would  1  assume 
that  Zelter  could  not  resume  his  duties,  and  even  iu 
that  event,  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  discuss 
the  matter  with  any  one  but  himself;  every  other 
mode  of  proceeding  I  should  consider  unfair  towards 
him.  If  however  he  requires  my  services,  1  am 
r;ady.  and  shall  rejoice  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  him, 
but  still  more  so,  if  he  does  not  want  me,  and  is  en- 


In  reference  to  a  situation  iu  tho  siugitoademle. 


ZELTER'S  DEATH.  353 

tirely  recovered.  I  beg  you  will  write  me  a  few 
words  on  this  subject. 

I  must  now  inform  you  of  my  plans  and  engage- 
ments till  I  leave  this.  Yesterday  I  finished  the 
"  Rondeau  brillant,"  and  I  am  to  play  it  this  day 
week  at  Mori's  evening  concert.  The  day  after  I 
rehearse  my  Munich  Concerto  at  the  Philharmonic, 
and  play  it  on  Monday  the  28th  at  their  concert ;  on 
the  1st  of  June  Moscheles7  concert,  where,  with  him, 
I  play  a  Concerto  of  Mozart's  for  two  pianos,  and 
conduct  my  two  overtures,  "The  Hebrides"  and 
'•The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  Finally,  the 
last  Philharmonic  is  on  the  llth,  where  I  am  to 
conduct  some  piece. 

1  must  finish  the  arrangement  for  Cramer,  and 
some  "  Lieder"  for  the  piano,  also  some  songs  with 
English  words,  besides  some  German  ones  for  my- 
self, for  after  all  it  is  spring,  and  the  lilacs  are  in 
bloom.  Last  Monday  "  The  Hebrides"  was  given 
for  the  first  time  in  the  Philharmonic ;  it  went  ad- 
mirably, and  sounded  very  quaint  among  a  variety 
of  Rossini  pieces.  The  audience  received  both  me 
and  my  work  with  extreme  kindness.  This  evening 
is  Mr.  Vaughan's  concert ;  but  I  am  sure  you  must 
be  quite  sick  of  hearing  of  so  many  concerts,  so  I 
conclude. 

Norwood,  Surrey,  May  2jth. 

These  are  hard  times,  and  many  are  laid  low  !* 
May  it  please  God  to  preserve  you  all  to  me,  and 

*  He  had  rcce/ved  the  news  of  Zelter's  death 
30* 


354  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

to  grant  us  a  joyful  meeting  !  You  will  receive  this 
letter  from  the  same  villa  whence  I  wrote  to  you 
three  years  ago  last  November,  just  before  my 
return. 

1  have  now  come  out  here  for  a  few  days  to  rest, 
and  to  collect  my  thoughts,  just  as  I  did  at  that 
time,  on  account  of  my  health.  All  is  unchanged 
here  ;  my  room  is  precisely  the  same  ;  even  the  music 
in  the  old  cupboard  stands  exactly  in  the  same  spot ; 
the  people  are  quite  as  considerate,  and  quiet,  and 
attentive  as  formerly,  and  the  three  years  have 
passed  over  both  them  and  their  house,  as  peacefully 
as  if  half  the  world  had  not  been  uprooted  during 
that  period. 

It  is  pleasant  to  see  ;  the  only  difference  is,  that  we 
have  now  gay  spring,  and  apple-blossoms,  and  lilacs, 
and  all  kinds  of  flowers,  whereas  at  that  time  we 
had  autumn,  with  its  fogs  and  blazing  fires  ;  but  how 
much  is  now  gone  for  ever,  that  we  then  still  had; 
this  gives  much  food  for  thought.  Ji.stas  at  that 
time  I  wrote  to  you  saying  little,  save  ••farewell  till 
we  meet;"  so  must  it  be  to-day  also.  It  will  indeed 
be  a  graver  meeting,  and  1  bring  no  '•  Liederspiel  " 
with  me  composed  in  this  room,  as  the  former  one 
was.  but  (iod  grant  1  may  only  find  you  all  well. 

You  write,  dear  Fanny,  that  1  ought  especially  to 
hasten  my  return,  in  order  if  possible  to  secure  the 
situation  in  the  Academy  ;  but  this  1  do  not  choose 
to  do.  I  shall  return  as  soon  as  1  can,  because  my 
father  writes  that  be  wishes  me  to  do  so  ;  1  therefore 
ii'U'iid  to  set  off  in  about  a  fortnight,  but  solely  for 


SITUATION    IX    THE    ACADEMY.  355 

that  reason  ;  the  other  motive  would  rather  tend  to 
detain  me  here,  indeed,  if  any  motive  could  do  so; 
for  I  will  in  no  manner  solicit  the  situation. 

When  I  reminded  my  father  formerly  of  the  pro- 
posal of  the  Director,  the  reason  which  he  then 
advanced  against  it.  seemed  to  me  perfectly  just ;  he 
paid  that  he  regarded  this  place  rather  as  a  sinecure 
for  more  advanced  years,  "when  the  Academy  might 
1)0  resorted  to  as  a  harbour  of  refuse."  For  the 
next  few  years  1  aspire  as  little  to  this  as  to  any 
other  situation;  my  purpose  is  to  live  by  the  fruits 
of  my  labours,  just  as  I  do  here,  and  my  resolve  is 
to  be  independent.  Considering  the  peculiar  posi- 
tion of  the  Academy,  the  small  salary  they  give,  and 
the  great  influence  they  might  exercise,  the  place  of 
Director  seems  to  me  only  an  honourable  post,  which 
I  have  no  desire  to  sue  for.  Jf  they  were  to  offer  it 
to  me,  I  would  accept  it,  because  I  promised  formerly 
to  do  so  :  but  only  for  a  settled  time  and  on  certain 
conditions;  and  if  they  do  not  intend  to  offer  it, 
then  my  presence  can  be  of  no  possible  use.  I  do 
not  certainly  require  to  convince  them  of  my  capa- 
bility for  the  office,  and  I  neither  will,  nor  can, 
intrigue.  Besides,  for  the  reasons  I  mentioned  in  a 
previous  letter,  I  cannot  leave  England  till  after  the 
llth,  and  the  affair  will  no  doubt  be  decided  before 
Jiat  time. 

I  beg  that  no  step  of  any  kind  may  be  taken  on 
my  behalf,  except  that  which  my  father  mentioned 
concerning  my  immediate  return ;  but  nothing  in 
the  smallest  degree  approaching  to  solicitation  ;  and 


356  MENDELSSOHN'S    LETTERS. 

when  they  do  make  their  choice,  I  only  hope  that 
they  may  find  a  man  who  will  perform  his  duties 
with  as  much  zeal  as  old  Zelter. 

I  received  the  intelligence  in  the  morning  just  as 
I  was  going  to  write  to  him  ;  then  came  a  rehearsal 
of  my  new  piece  for  the  piano,  with  its  wild  gaiety, 
and  when  the  musicians  were  applauding  and  com- 
plimenting me,  I  could  not  help  feeling  strongly, 
that  I  was  indeed  in  a  foreign  land.  I  then  came 
here,  where  I  found  both  men  and  places  unchanged; 
but  Hauser  unexpectedly  arrived,  and  we  fell  into 
each  other's  arms,  and  recalled  the  happy  days  we 
had  enjoyed  together  in  South  Germany  the  previous 
autumn,  and  all  that  has  passed  away  for  ever, 
during  the  last  six  months.  Your  mournful  news 
was  always  present  to  me  in  its  sad  reality — so  this 
is  the  manner  in  which  I  have  spent  the  last  few 
days  here.  Forgive  me  for  not  being  able  to  write 
properly  to-day.  I  go  to  town  this  evening  to  play, 
and  also  to-morrow,  Sunday,  and  Monday. 

I  have  now  a  favour  to  ask  of  you,  dear  Father,  in 
reference  to  the  cantatas  of  Sebastian  Bach,  which 
Zelter  possessed.  If  you  can  possibly  prevent  their 
being  disposed  of  before  my  return,  pray  do  so,  for 
I  am  most  anxious  at  any  price  to  see  the  entire 
collection  before  it  is  dispersed. 

I  might  have  told  you  of  many  agreeable  things 
that  have  occurred  to  me  during  the  last  few  weeks, 
fur  every  day  brings  me  fresh  proofs  that  the  people 
like  me,  and  are  glad  to  associate  with  me ;  which  is 
gratifying,  and  makes  my  life  here  easy  and  pleasant; 


SITUATION    IX    THE    ACADEMY.  357 

but  to-day  I  really  cannot.  Perhaps  in  mj  next 
letter  my  spirits  may  be  sufficiently  restore.1,  to 
return  to  my  usual  narrative  style. 

Many  remembrances  from  the  Moscheli'S ;  they 
are  excellent  people,  and  after  so  long  an  interval, 
it  is  most  cheering  once  more  to  meet  an  artist, 
who  is  not  a  victim  to  envy,  jealousy,  or  miserable 
egotism.  He  makes  continued  and  steady  progress 
in  his  art. 

The  warm  sun  is  shining  out-of-doors,  so  I  shall 
now  go  down  into  the  garden,  to  perform  some 
gymnastics  there,  and  to  smell  the  lilacs;  this  wili 
show  you  that  I  am  well. 

London,  June  1st. 

On  the  day  that  I  received  the  news  of  Zelter's 
death,  I  thought  that  I  should  have  had  a  serious 
illness,  and  indeed  during  the  whole  of  the  ensuing 
week  I  could  not  shake  off  this  feeling.  My  mani- 
fold engagements  however  have  now  diverted  my 
thoughts,  and  brought  me  to  myself,  or  rather  out 
of  myself.  I  am  well  again,  and  very  busy. 

First  of  all  I  must  thank  you,  dear  Father,  for 
your  kind  letter.  It  is  in  a  great  measure  already 
answered  by  my  previous  one,  but  I  will  now  repeat 
why  I  decline  sending  any  application  to  the  com- 
mittee. 

In  the  first  place.  I  quite  agree  with  your  former 
opinion,  that  this  situation  in  the  Academy  is  not 
desirable  at  the  outset  of  my  career  ;  indeed  I  could 
only  accept  it  for  a  certain  time,  and  under  particu- 
lar conditions,  and  even  then,  solely  to  perform  my 


358  MENDELSSOHN'S  LETTERS. 

previous  promise.  If  I  solicit  it,  I  am  bound  to 
accept  the  place,  as  they  choose  to  give  it,  and  to 
comply  with  their  conditions  as  to  salary,  duties, 
etc.,  though  I  do  not  as  yet  even  know  what  these 
are. 

In  the  second  place,  the  reason  they  gave  you 
why  I  should  write,  seems  to  me  neither  a  true  nor 
a  straightforward  one.  They  say  they  wish  to  be 
certain  I  will  accept  of  it,  and  that  on  this  account 
I  must  enroll  myself  among  the  candidates  ;  but  they 
offered  it  to  me  three  years  ago,  and  Lichtensteiu 
said  they  did  so  to  ascertain  if  I  would  take  it,  and 
begged  me  to  give  a  distinct  answer  on  this  point; 
at  that  time  I  said  yes,  that  I  was  willing  to  carry  it 
on,  along  with  Rungenhagen.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
should  think  the  same  now ;  but  as  I  said  so  then,  I 
can  no  longer  draw  back,  and  must  keep  my  word. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  my  assent,  for  as  I  once 
gave  it,  so  it  must  remain :  still  less  can  I  do  so 
when  I  should  have  to  offer  myself  to  them  for  the 
post  they  once  offered  to  me.  If  they  were  disposed 
to  adhere  to  their  former  offer,  they  would  not  re- 
quire me  to  take  a  step  which  they  took  themselves 
three  years  ago  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  would  remem- 
ber the  assent  I  then  gave,  for  they  must  know  that 
I  am  incapable  of  breaking  such  a  promise. 

A  confirmation  of  my  former  promise  is  therefore 
qui'c  unnecessary,  and  if  they  intend  to  appoint 
anotner  to  the  situation,  my  letter  would  not  prevent 
their  doing  so.  I  must  further  refer  to  my  letter 
from  Paris,  in  which  I  told  vou  that  I  wished  to 


PHILHARMOMC    CONCERT.  359 

return  to  Berlin  in  the  spring,  as  it  was  the  only  city 
in  Germany  with  which  I  was  still  unacquainted. 

This  is  my  well-weighed  purpose ;  I  do  not  know 
how  I  shall  get  on  in  Berlin,  or  whether  I  shall  be 
able  to  remain  there, — that  is,  whether  I  shall  be 
able  to  enjoy  the  same  facilities  for  work,  and  pro- 
gress, that  are  offered  to  me  in  other  places.  The 
only  house  that  I  know  in  Berlin  is  our  own,  and  I 
feel  certain  I  shall  be  quite  happy  there ;  but  I  must 
also  be  in  a  position  to  be  actively  employed,  and 
this  I  shall  discover  when  I  return.  I  hope  that  all 
will  come  to  pass  as  1  wish,  for  of  course  the  spot 
where  you  live  must  be  nlwavs  dearest  to  me  :  but 
till  I  know  this  to  a  certainty  I  do  not  wish  to  fetter 
myself  by  any  situation. 

I  conclude,  because  I  have  a  vast  deal  to  do  to 
enable  me  to  set  off  after  the  next  Philharmonic. 
I  must  publish  several  pieces  before  I  go ;  I  receive 
numbers  of  commissions  on  all  sides,  and  some 
so  gratifying  that  I  exceedingly  regret  not  being  able 
to  set  to  work  at  once. 

Among  others,  T  this  morning  got  a  note  from  a 
publisher,  who  wishes  me  to  give  him  the  score  of 
two  grand  pieces  of  sacred  music,  for  morning  and 
evening  service:  you  may  imagine  how  much  I  am 
pleased  with  this  proposal,  and  immediately  on  my 
arrival  in  the  Leipziger  Strasse  I  intend  to  begin 
them. 

"The  Hebrides"  I  mean  to  reserve  for  a  time  for 
myself,  before  arranging  it  as  a  duet ;  but  my  new 
rondo  is  in  hand,  and  I  must  finish  those  everlasting 


360  MENDELSSOHN'S  LKTTKKS. 

"Liecler"  for  the  piano,  as  well  as  various  tihcr 
arrangements,  and  probably  the  Concerto.  I  played 
it  last  Monday  in  the  Philharmonic,  and  I  think  I 
never  in  my  life  had  such  success.  The  audience 
were  crazy  with  delight,  and  declared  it  was  iny 
best  work. 

I  am  now  going  to  Moscheles'  concert,  to  conduct 
there,  and  to  play  Mozart's  Concerto,  in  which  I 
bave  inserted  two  long  cadences  for  each  of  us. 

FELIX. 


THE    END 


University  of  California 

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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


AL  UNIV 

;' /  of  Cal 


DATE  DUE 


1977 


. . 


•"c*^ 

?3§ 
.    v- 


Univerj 

Sout 

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